Code of the Mountain Man (21 page)

The outlaws and bounty hunters formed up and began filling the timber ahead of them with lead. But Smoke was gone. He knew if he was to survive, he had to think twice as fast as the outlaws and be two steps ahead of them at all times.

He chanced a return to the pass entrance, hoping against hope. But after scanning the entrance, he knew it had been posted with men. Safely behind and to the north of the outlaws, Smoke paused for a short rest while he looked around him at the high peaks surrounding the valley. Was this valley really a box? He knew a lot of cowboys called any canyon or valley they could not ride a horse out of a box. Maybe it was – maybe it wasn't. He was going to find out. Only problem was, he had no blankets to combat the intense cold of the high lonesome should he be trapped up there and have to spend the night.

A bullet slammed into a tree, just missing his head. Smoke jumped for cover.

“Here he is!” came the shout. “Come on, boys. Now we got him.”

“Where, Malone?”

“Work your way north towards me. I'll keep him pinned down. That'll put him 'twixt you and me.”

Smoke put a .44-.40 'twixt Malone's ribs, right in the center of the V of the ribcage.

“Oh, God!” Malone yelled. “He plugged me.”

Smoke ran to Malone and kicked the man's rifle away from him, smiling as he saw the rolled up ground sheet and blanket tied across the man's back. He tore it from him and took his pistols.

“Help me,” Malone moaned.

Smoke pointed his rifle at Malone and jacked back the hammer.

“Oh, Jesus!” the outlaw squalled. “Not thataway!”

“Then shut up and die quietly.” Smoke was gone, running into the timber north of the gutshot outlaw and at the base of a formidable-looking peak.

“He's run towards the mountains, boys!” Smoke heard Malone's yell, and knew he had to stand and fight for a time.

He bellied down behind a rotting log and punched rounds into his Winchester. One outlaw ran across the small clearing, running to help Malone. Smoke dropped him. The man threw his rifle high into the air and hit the ground. He did not move.

“You a devil, Jensen!” Malone yelled. “He was a-comin' to help me.”

“Stay along the timberline,” Luttie told his men. “Don't expose yourselves.”

“What about Malone?” Jake asked.

“You want to go help him?”

Jake did not reply. The men stayed in cover until Malone's screaming ceased. They did not know if he had passed out or if he was dead. Most didn't care one way or the other.

“He's tooken Malone's bedroll,” Whit said. “See yonder. It's gone.”

“He's going to try for the peaks,” Lee said. “But you said this was a box.”

“It is.” But that nagged at Luttie. He knew there were only two ways that a man could ride a horse in or out. Jensen had blown one of them closed. But was it possible for a man to climb out? He didn't know. He'd never tried it, and didn't know of anyone who ever had.

Luttie silently cursed. But if any man could climb out, it would be that damn Smoke Jensen.

“Fan out,” Luttie ordered. “We can't let him get into the highup. Remember what he done last time.”

The outlaws and manhunters started cautiously fanning out. Some of them were rapidly losing their taste for the hunt and would leave if they got a chance. Honor be damned.

Smoke silently melted into the timber and the brush, climbing higher. He would pause now and then to scan the peaks with field glasses. A cup of coffee would taste good right now, but he didn't have any and could not dare risk a fire even if he did.

He found a small pool of clear, cold water and bathed his wounds carefully, treating them with the medicines Sally had packed for him. The wounds were not serious, and he knew that high altitudes slowed infections.

Smoke took the time to rig some deadfalls and other more lethal traps. That done, he hiked up another hundred yards and found a good location. To hell with it! He was tired and was going to rest.

“Come on, boys,” he muttered. “You want me, here I am!”

They almost got him.

It was one of those freak shots that had nothing at all to do with skill. The slug howled off a rock, hit a tree a glancing blow, and struck Smoke in the side. Had it not lost much of its force, it probably would have killed him.

Smoke looked at the hole in his side. The bullet had hit the fleshy part of his back and exited out the front. It looked awful, hurt like hell, but was not a serious wound. It was, however, going to impede any attempts at climbing.

Smoke shifted positions, working his way out of the rocks and getting into a natural depression that offered less chance of a ricochet. He checked the sun. About ten o'clock, he figured. It was going to be a very long day.

Smoke sighted in what appeared to be a man's arm and fired. He missed his shot, but the outlaw yelled and scrambled back down the hill, finding a more protected spot.

Smoke kept his head down while the lead hammered and howled all around him. He knew they were advancing toward him during the fusillade, but it couldn't be helped. While the outlaws frantically punched fresh rounds into their rifles, Smoke sighted in a man running hard for cover . . . and alarmingly near Smoke's position. The .44-.40 slug busted him, turning him around like a top. Smoke's second shot ended the spin.

“He got Tap!” a man yelled, jumping up in anger and excitement.

Smoke got him, too. He couldn't tell if it was a killing shot, but the man went down limp and didn't move.

“Damn!” he heard a man say. “Whit's had it.”

“I've had it too,” another man said. “I'm gone. Done. Finished.”

Two more agreed with him, and Smoke let them leave, even though he had a clear shot at one of them and a maybe shot at another.

Smoke pulled back. He was so muddy and bloody he blended in with the earth and the foliage. He ached all over and longed for a hot tub of water with a big bar of soap. What he got was dirt and rocks and twigs kicked into his face by a bullet. He wiped his vision clear and slipped into cover, his face bleeding.

He watched through a sturdy mountain bush as a man limped from one tree to another. Smoke ended his limping with a single shot.

“Damnit!” a man said. “I told Keno to head back out of the valley.”

“He shore ain't goin' nowheres now,” another man said. 'Ceptin' the grave, if he's lucky.”

“I want his boots,” a man yelled. “I was with him when he stole 'em. Them's brand new. Mine's wore slap out.”

Keep talking, Smoke thought, shifting around to face the direction of the closest voice and earing back the hammer on his Winchester.

He waited and saw what he felt was the tip of a boot. The boot moved just a bit, exposing several more inches of leather. He laid a bead and squeezed the trigger. A howl of pain erupted from behind the cluster of low rocks.

“My foot's ruint!” a man yelled. “Oh, God, it hurts! He blowed my toes off.”

“Now you shore need some boots,” a man told him, ending it with a dirty laugh.

Smoke put three fast rounds into the bushes where he felt the smart-mouth was hiding. He watched as a man rose slowly to his feet. He looked down at his bullet-perforated and bloody shirt front. “You bastard,” the outlaw said, then toppled over on his face.

“It ain't workin', Luttie,” the sound came to Smoke. “He's pickin' us off one by one.”

“Then leave, you yeller-belly!” Luttie said. “You're paid up. Haul your ashes.”

“I believe I'll just do that little thing. I'm pullin' out, Jensen. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Don't shoot. I'm gone.”

Smoke let him go while the remaining outlaws poured lead into Smoke's position. Smoke stayed low, hating it, knowing they were inching closer, but unable to prevent it.

He heard panting coming from only a few feet away and knew if he didn't move, they would have him cold.

“Goddamnit, he must have moved!” the voice was only inches away.

“He's got to be in there. Are you stone blind, Crown?” Lee yelled.

No. Crown was just stone dead. Smoke shot him in the belly at point-blank range, pulled out the man's twin Remingtons and emptied them downhill. He lunged out of the hole and ran into the bushes, lead whining and howling and clipping branches and thudding into trees all around him.

“Somebody kill him, damnit!” Luttie screamed. “Cain't nobody shoot straight no more?”

Smoke climbed higher, pausing often to rest. His wounds were taking a toll on him, gradually sapping his strength. Although still bull-strong, he couldn't last another day; he knew that. He had to bring this fight to an end.

Something slammed into his head and knocked him spinning. The last thing he remembered was falling into darkness.

* * *

“They claim they killed him,” Mills said, after speaking to several people in the huge crowd around the mouth of the valley entrance.

“I don't believe it,” Winston said.

Mills shrugged his shoulders. “Smoke is a mortal man, Winston. A big tough bear of a man, but still mortal. Look, I don't want to believe it either, but face facts. He's been fighting terrible odds for days.”

“Where's the body?” Larry asked, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“They said he fell down into a ravine. No way to retrieve the body. But they have his rifle.”

“Oh, my God!” Hugh shook his head. “It must be true.”

“We'll arrest the outlaws as they come out,” Mills ordered. “If they offer just the slightest hint of resistance, kill them on the spot.”

“You don't mean that, Mills!” Sharp said.

“The hell I don't!”

* * *

Sally looked up into the face of Lilly LaFevere. Johnny North, Cotton, Earl, and Louis were with her. All their faces were grim.

“Give it to me straight,” Sally said.

“Word is they killed your man, honey.”

“Where's the body?”

“A bounty hunter told a reporter that it can't be recovered. Smoke supposedly fell off into a ravine after being shot in the head,” Louis said grimly. “We're riding to the valley. Sheriff Silva and a posse are here now, to keep order. Stay with her, Lilly.”

“I'll do that.”

* * *

Cold.

Smoke opened his eyes and for one panicky moment felt he was blind. But it was dried blood that had caked his eyes shut. He dug the blood away with as little movement as possible, not wanting to draw attention. His entire left side hurt, and the right side of his head throbbed with pain. But not his left side. Curious. He wondered how that could be?

When his vision cleared, he realized just how bad his position was.

He was lying on a ledge that jutted out a few yards from the face of the ravine. It was about a five hundred foot drop to the bottom. Smoke looked up and guessed that he'd fallen no more than fifteen or twenty feet. When he hit, the bedroll had protected his head. That was why only the bullet-creased side ached. When he hit, he had rolled against the face of the cliff, protected from eyes above by a little outcropping of rock. He was stiff and sore and bruised all over ... but he was alive.

He lay still for a moment, going over his problems, and they were many. He rolled over on his stomach and had to stifle a groan of pain as his torn and bruised body protested.

The ledge snaked around a bend. He had no idea what lay around that bend. He had no rope to aid in his climbing out. He had no idea how badly hurt he might be. He had no idea how far the ledge ran. If he stayed where he was, he would die. It was that simple. If he tried to climb out, the odds of his making it were slim to none.

But he damn sure was going to try.

Food. He had to eat. He fumbled around in his saddle bag and found some hard crackers. He ate them, drank a swallow of water left in his busted canteen, and felt better. If I felt any worse, he thought with dark humor, I'd be dead.

Smoke wriggled around on the ledge, being very careful not to get too close to the edge, for the rock looked very flaky and unstable there. On his belly, he checked his guns which had stayed in leather thanks to the hammer thongs. The guns were dirty, and he carefully cleaned them, working the action and reloading. He checked the knife on his belt and the shorter-bladed knife in his leggings. Both were still in place and both still sharp enough to shave with.

Smoke was tired, so very, very tired. He would have liked to just lay his head on his arm and go to sleep. Maybe just rest for a few moments. He shook himself like a big shaggy dog. No time for rest. He felt for his pocket watch and was not surprised to see it busted, the hands stopping at eleven-thirty-five. He judged the time to be close to four, maybe four-thirty. He didn't have all that much daylight left him.

Taking a deep breath, he crawled forward. Wouldn't it be interesting, he thought, to come face to face with a mountain lion on this narrow trail with a five hundred foot drop below?

He decided it would not be interesting. Just deadly for one of them.

He crawled on, smiling at what faced him a few yards around the curve in the trail. The mountain pass ended, but it did not end sheer; it ended in an upside down V. Now, if there were just sufficient handholds or jutting rocks that were stable, he could climb out. It was only about twenty feet to the top, and he could hear no sounds above him except the sighing of the mountain winds. He reached the end of the narrow ledge and rested for a time. God, he was worn out.

Smoke crawled to his knees and put one foot on the other side of the narrow gorge. He willed himself not to look down. The slight protruding of rock felt secure under his foot, and he leaned forward, gripping two outcropping, one in each hand. He lifted his left foot to a toehold about two feet off the trail, and now he was committed to the mountain.

It took him twenty minutes to climb about twenty feet, and using brute strength while dangling over a five hundred foot drop was not something he wished to repeat. Ever.

When he crawled over the top he was exhausted. If he had not been wearing leather gloves, he probably would not have made it; the rocks would have cut his hands to bloody ribbons. He belly-crawled into a copse of timber and rolled up in his blankets. He had to rest.

* * *

“Can you believe this?” Mills almost shouted the words, as he waved a court order that was hand-delivered to him that afternoon.

“Yeah, I can believe it,” Johnny said. The marshals and the deputies had returned to town after the court order had been delivered.

Judge Richards had obviously pre-signed pardons for all the outlaws in the Lee Slater gang. The order had just been found and delivered.

“I turned all the jailed outlaws loose,” Earl said. “I thought Sheriff Silva was going to have a heart attack.”

It was midnight in Rio, and the town was sleeping. The outlaws were due to ride in the next day, as soon as the reward money was stagecoached in on the afternoon stage, to collect their blood money. And outlaws being what they are, they were also going to collect the reward money that had been on the heads of their now departed friends.

“The end of an era,” Larry said, soaking his feet in a bucket of lukewarm water. “I would have liked to have met Mr. Smoke Jensen, to shake his hand and tell him how wrong I was about him.”

“Don't sell Smoke short,” Louis said. “I'll not believe he's dead until I see the body.”

“But he fell off a mountain!” Mills said. “Or rather down into a deep chasm.”

“Yes,” the gambler said. “And chasms and ravines have outcroppings that are not always visible from above. I don't believe he's dead.”

“Neither do I,” Johnny said. “Hurt, yes. Dead?” He shook his head. “No.”

“Sally?” Earl asked.

“I don't think she believes it either.”

“I aim to be in the street when them outlaws ride in tomorrow,” Johnny said.

“Me, too,” Cotton said.

“I'll be with you boys,” Earl made three.

“I shall certainly be there,” Louis said, standing up.

“Count me in,” Larry surprised them all. “I owe this much to his memory. I certainly maligned the man while he was alive.”

Six U.S. Marshals' badges hit the desk. “And we shall be standing with you,” Mills said.

“Gonna be a hell of a party,” Cotton summed it up with a wicked grin.

* * *

Smoke awakened at midnight. He was aching and sore, but feeling a lot better. His clothes were stiff with dried blood and mud and sweat, but his hands opened and closed easily. He rolled his blankets and started walking. Less than an hour later, he found a riderless horse, still saddled and bridled. Probably had belonged to one of the dead outlaws or bounty hunters. He stripped saddle and bridle from the animal and let it graze and roll while he went through the saddlebags and poke-sack and found food, coffee, frying pan, and coffee pot.

He checked out the rifle in the boot; it was loaded full with .44s. He led the horse back behind some boulders and picketed the animal. Then he built a fire and fried bacon and potatoes and made a pot of coffee. Being a coffee-loving man, he drank the coffee right out of the pot while his food was cooking, then he settled down and ate leisurely and drank more coffee out of a cup.

An hour later, he had carefully put out the fire and was in the saddle, riding for the pass. The pass was deserted when he rode through it. On the other side of the pass, however, he could see where it looked like hundreds of people had held a wild party. Empty beer kegs and empty whiskey bottles lay all over the place.