Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (8 page)

A hole popped in the scraped animal skin. No response from a wounded man. One thing bothered Ace. He had no idea how many men were in there. Jensen for sure, he had gotten a glimpse of a broad-shouldered, ash-blond man in the doorway. A man so quick and steady he put a slug along the side of Hank Graves’s thigh. A groan came from the wounded man as Ducky Yoder finished bandaging the limb.

“How’s he doin’, Ducky?”

“I’m doin’ miserable, Ace,” Hank answered for himself.

“He can ride, if that’s what you want to know,” a surly Ducky Yoder growled.

Ace Delevan slitted his eyes. “Who said we were gonna ride anywhere? Smoke Jensen is in there an’ we’re gonna git him.”

Ducky cut his eyes to the open barn doors and the cabin beyond it. “Who says that’s Jensen in there?” He meant, “besides you.”

Ace chewed on the drooping left end of his mustache. “I say it’s him. For that matter then, you tell me what man could fling open that door, jump into the openin’, bust off a cap, an’ pop back outta sight without even gettin’ a shot at him if it ain’t Jensen.”

That silenced Ducky for the moment. Ace eased through the shadowy interior of the barn to where he could see through a crack. Burl Winfree and Pauli Hansel had taken up good positions that covered the front door. They had the back covered. A clapboard add-on had been tacked to the rear, to allow for a kitchen and wash house. The door to that hung open a slight bit. Ace sighted in.

A billow of gunsmoke obscured his results for a while. When he could see clearly, he found only a neat little hole. He fired again. Something made of glass broke inside. There followed a shout of anger, then a cloud of wood splinters that cut at his face. The boom of the shotgun got drowned in his curses.

Ace plucked a splinter from his cheek as he turned to the other ruffians. “There’s at least two of them in there.”

“Then we’d better think up some way of getting them out or us in,” Ducky Yoder suggested.

Ace shook his head. “We ain’t gonna do that, just the five of us. Hank, can you ride well enough to go round up the Joiner brothers an’ Wally Eckert?”

Hank winced. “I reckon. Iffin I can reach my horse.”

“Might oughtta find Jake Brock an’ Jose Suarez, too.”

Ducky Yoder put in his two cents worth. “Jeez, that’s scraping the bottom of the barrel, isn’t it?”

Ace blinked. “Ya mean Jose?”

“Naw. I mean Jake. He’s a hopeless drunk.”

The trio laughed. Ducky helped Hank to his feet. “Go out the side door an’ cut through the corral. Your mount is at the water trough,” he told Hank.

“We’ll lay down cover fire,” Ace offered.

Hank hobbled away at the best speed possible under the circumstances. When he reached the double door to the corral, he swung it wide, ducked as low as the pain in his leg would allow, and made straight for the far side. Ace and his companions opened fire. Hank made it to the rump of his horse when Smoke Jensen drew a fine bead and let go with a round from his Winchester.

Hank’s head exploded in a shower of blood, bone, and brain tissue. He went rubber-legged and fell in a pile of smoking horse manure. From beside him at the back door, Morgan Crosby let go with first one barrel, then the other. Double aught buckshot slashed the plank wall of the barn.

“You bastard,” Ace shrieked. “You put two pellets in my left arm.”

In answer, he got three fast rounds from a Winchester. This was going to be one long afternoon, Ace thought bitterly.

Smoke Jensen shoved cartridges through the loading gate of his Winchester. He had seen movement in the corral and tracked the wounded thug to his horse. He had managed to finish him and get back to the semi-detached kitchen in time to give the others a nasty surprise when one of them shouted at Morgan Crosby. Now if that saddle trash out there would only do something else stupid, Smoke considered.

He weighed the safety of their position and made a suggestion in the form of a question. “Morgan, don’t you think we’re a little exposed out here? Those clapboard walls are nowhere near as thick as those of the cabin.”

Crosby pondered on it a while. “Yep. I suppose yer right. But we’ve still got us at least two in the barn. Which reminds me, if it’s only two, where’s the other pair?”

Smoke had already gone into motion. “Out front, no doubt.”

He reached the front room of the log structure moments later. Right in time, Smoke discovered, to watch the man Ace had called Pauli Hansel get brave.

When no return fire had come from this side of the cabin, Pauli correctly deduced that no one was guarding it. A recent immigrant from Germany, a former Bramen dock waif turned killer, he had fled from the German police. It had been natural enough for him to throw in with the criminal element in New York. Ace Delevan had proven a good leader, and when things got too hot, Pauli had agreed to move west with the gang leader. So far it had been easy.

There were fewer stores to rob, but the banks bulged with gold. And people out here were all so trusting. Pauli compared it to stealing from children. Only this time they had come up against someone a whole lot tougher than most residents of the frontier, and a whole lot meaner. From his vantage point, Pauli had seen what happened to Hank Graves. When the firing increased from the back of the building, it convinced Pauli that he could close in on the defenders from their blind side and finish it once and for all.

He had not counted Smoke Jensen into his equation. Pauli Hansel had taken three long strides toward the building when he saw a slight flicker of movement at one window. He swung his rifle to his left shoulder as a tongue of flame licked outward in his direction. Something hit him hard in the chest, with enough force to drive him to his knees. Pauli tried to contain the fiery ache long enough to sight in. He had the target lined up, palms sweaty, breath in short, agonizing gasps, when another hammer blow smashed into the butt-stock of his Marlin .38-40. The slug rammed through and blew away the lower portion of his jaw. A cascade of lights went off in Pauli’s head and his shot went wild, a good five feet above the roof-tree of the cabin. An instant later, he fell dead in a welter of his own blood.

“Hey, Ace,” Burl Winfree shouted. “They done got Pauli.”

Nothing for it but to rush the cabin, Ace thought. He relayed his plan to Ducky Yoder. Then yelled to Burl Winfree.

“Burl, listen to me. We’re gonna have to take this place damn fast. When you hear us open up, blast the front of that place and take the door. You got that?”

“You gone crazy, Ace?” Burl protested.

“No, I ain’t. But at this rate, they’re gonna git us one by one. Jist do it, y’hear?” This had indeed turned out to be a terrible afternoon.

This was more like it in Smoke Jensen’s book. When the volume of fire increased, he made ready. Braced at the edge of the window, protected by two-foot-thick logs, Smoke shoved the muzzle of his rifle out the edge of the sash. He had not located the remaining hard case, only had a general idea from the sound of the voice. Smoke expected the man to charge for the front door when those in the barn opened up. That Burl Winfree did not choose to follow his orders to the letter nearly cost Smoke his life.

When the thugs in the barn began to blast furiously at the rear of the house, Smoke Jensen stepped away from the protection of the thick wall and tore apart a square of the window covering. At the same moment, a bullet snapped past his right ear. It took Smoke a fleeting second to locate the shooter. When he did, the Winchester tracked onto the target and bucked in Smoke’s hands. It had been a hasty shot, one Smoke did not expect to be fatal. The hot lead did tear through the shoulder of the charging hard case. He bit off a groan and kept coming.

Burl had emptied his rifle magazine and shifted the Marlin to his left hand. The Colt in his right bucked and roared as he advanced, somewhat falteringly as blood soaked the back of his shirt. Smoke Jensen crouched below the window, waiting. Boot soles thudded on the small stoop porch and the weight of a body crashed against the door.

It shook and rattled in its frame, but the latch held for the moment. Increased effort cracked the slide bar and it began to splinter on the third powerful kick. Smoke exchanged his rifle for a .45 Colt and waited. The door, which ordinarily opened outward, vibrated violently and cracked apart at the middle, between two upright planks. Another kick and a muffled cry of pain followed and the divided halves flew inward.

At once, a man followed. Smoke raised his six-gun and fired. “Good,” he told his target. “But not good enough.”

Burl Winfree slammed back against the doorjamb, an astonished expression on his suddenly pale, grayish face. Slowly he slid down the side post to a sitting position. He left a glistening red trail behind. With effort he worked his mouth and breathy, gurgles came from deep in his chest.

“Are…you…Jensen?” he asked with his last gasp.

“Yep. One and the same.”

Smoke Jensen watched the man until he died, then hurried to the aid of Morgan Crosby. The old man did not seem in much need. He had the remaining pair pinned down. One lay sprawled behind a feed bunker, badly wounded in the left shoulder by a load of buckshot. He kept up a steady fire, though, that crashed through the kitchen and smacked the cabin wall. The other man was not in Smoke’s line of sight.

Then a rifle cracked in the hay mow and Smoke found his target. Two fast rounds from the Colt drove Ace Delevan away from his vantage point. He went down the ladder hand-over-hand and zigzagged his way to the big, open doors. Morgan Crosby fired at him as he cut away at a sharp oblique angle. The shot column hissed past inches from his chest.

Smoke Jensen fired at the movement also, with greater effect. His bullet took Ace low in the gut. Ace doubled over in blinding pain and stumbled into a pile of burlap sacks. Those gave him a softer landing than he expected. Biting on his lower lip, Ace rolled over and swung his six-gun toward the threat from the cabin. He was seriously hit, though not as badly as he could have been. He waved feebly to Ducky Yoder, stretched out in the yard.

“Ducky, cover me.”

“Sure enough, Ace.”

Ducky opened fire, blazing away where no one waited anymore. Ace forced himself upright and began a shambling run toward the cabin. When he passed by Yoder’s position, the last of his men came to his boots and followed. Both wounded, their chances for success lay somewhere between slim and none. Yet, they came on.

Three pellets of 00 buckshot, from a load fired by Morgan Crosby, tore into Ducky’s left hip. Pain, suddenly numbed by icy shock, made him veer off course. Canted to one side to ease the hot agony in his abused flesh, Ducky angled toward the south corner of the house. Seeing that, Ace had a sudden change of heart. He reversed his course and ran back inside the barn. He returned with two horses.

“Quick, mount up. We’ve gotta get out of here,” he yelled at a dazed Ducky Yoder.

“Go…on. I ain’t…gonna last…no how,” Ducky declared.

Ace used the mounts to cover himself as he ran up between their scourge and themselves. He jammed the reins on one bang-tail into the hand of Ducky Yoder and used that big ham fist to literally toss his last companion into the saddle.

“Keep low,” Ace declared as he swung atop his horse. Following his own advice, Ace spurred his mount to a fair to middling run and they raced away from danger.

After five minutes, Smoke Jensen and Morgan Crosby came out into the yard. The old man went from one dead piece of trash to another. At last he shook his head, massaged his chin with one gnarled hand and looked Smoke hard in the eye.

“B’gosh, we done did it. Run them right off. By the bye, they ain’t local.”

“I’ve handled more,” Smoke confided without bravado. “And alone for that matter.”

Crosby knew he had to ask. “Humph! I figgered that. You know, the name Jensen is a right common one, sure enough. But this little fight’s put me to wonderin’. Mighten you be
the
Jensen? Smoke Jensen?”

Laughing, Smoke nodded in the affirmative. “None other. And I’ll say it was a pleasure to fight alongside someone who can handle a shotgun in so masterful a manner.”

“Careful. Talk like that’ll git me a big head,” Crosby grumbled good-naturedly. “Well, seein’s as how you are Smoke Jensen, I’m obliged to let you know that there is something in the wind that don’t blow good where you’re concerned. It’d be best if you watched your back-trail real close. An’ to check every curve before you round it.”

“I appreciate that, Morgan. I’ve heard something to that effect before.”

Crosby spat a long, brown stream of tobacco juice. “This ain’t in the past. I’m talkin’ about the here and now. I reckon these proddy little pissants were lookin’ to collect on that money’s been put on yer head.”

“No doubt. Some others tried just yesterday,” Smoke informed Morgan. “And I do know who’s put up the bounty.”

Morgan Crosby cackled and slapped a thigh. “I figgered you did. A feller in your position don’t live as long as you have, lest he’s mighty smart. Now, you take care, Smoke Jensen. I’ll deal with these bodies.”

“You could use a hand digging holes,” Smoke offered.

“I ain’t that old that I need help. Besides, who said I was gonna bury them? We’ve got plenty hungry coyotes and buzzards around these parts. All I have to do is drag the bodies away from here.”

Smoke took his leave. “Thank you for the good meal and for lending a hand with this trash.”

“It’s me who’s thankin’ you,” Crosby came back. “I haven’t had me that much excitement in a long time. Makes me feel twenty years younger.”

With an exchange of friendly waves, Smoke Jensen turned Thunder down the lane and rode off northward from the cabin. Morgan Crosby bent to fix a rope around the crossed ankles of the late Hank Graves to make ready to drag the corpse out of sight and smell of the cabin. He’d harness up old Rose. She was steadiest for chores like that. It had indeed been a good day, he thought with a crooked smile on his lips.

“So this is Dutch John,” Ralph Tinsdale declared as the outlaw gang rode into the outskirts of a small town nestled in the Uinta Mountains, located in the northeast corner of Utah. “What are we stopping here for?”

Victor Spectre told him at once. “When I was last here, they had recently opened a nice little bank. I figure by now it should be rather prosperous. What some of you are going to do is make a withdrawal.”

Tinsdale’s eyes scanned the streets. Every man in sight wore a six-gun or had a rifle or shotgun close at hand. Even the purses of some of the women bulged in a suggestive manner. More Mormons, he reckoned, still shaken by the ferocity of the fight they had been forced to run from. From what he saw here, these people seemed equally competent. He made his unease known to Spectre.

“Are we all going to be in on it? These people can handle themselves. We could be caught in these streets, trapped here while they cut us down to the last man.”

Victor Spectre gave him an encouraging smile. “Nothing to be alarmed about. We’ll designate six to ten men to rob the bank, while the rest of us avoid the business district and ride out of town a ways. There we will prepare a greeting for any posse that might follow.” He reined in and turned to the other side.

“Gus, pick nine good men and split off from the rest. You’ll enter the main part of town up ahead in twos and threes. Do nothing to attract attention. At precisely eleven fifty-nine, you will enter the bank with five men. Close and lock the doors, draw the blinds and then take everything.”

“How come we gotta do it right then?” Farlee Huntoon blurted out.

If looks had the capacity for murder, the thunderous expression Victor Spectre turned on Farlee Huntoon would have had him dead and buried, six feet deep, and a head-stone erected. “For one thing, Mr. Huntoon, you will not be going along. However, I’ll answer your question for the benefit of any others who might be unaware. In these small communities, every business, with the exception of eating establishments and saloons, closes down over the noon hour. The bank will be no exception. That should give you the better part of an hour to thoroughly loot the place.”

Fin Brock and Judson Reese rubbed their hands together in anticipation. Grinning, Reese spoke for them both. “I like that. Just take our time and git it all, eh?”

“Precisely, Mr. Reese,” Victor told him. “The five who remain outside will provide a delaying action once the robbery has been discovered. Those carrying the money will ride by the most direct route to the northern edge of town and take the high road in the direction we have been following. You will know when you have caught up with us.”

Brock sniggered. “We’ll know it even more when any posse catches up.”

Spectre suppressed a smile. “That we will. Now, Gus, pick the men you want and we will start off. Those participating in the ambush will take varying routes out of this residential area, with none, I repeat, none entering downtown. Good luck.”

“And good fortune,” Olin Buckner added with a jaunty salute.

Walter Higgins looked up from his large, roll-top desk as two men entered the double front doors of the Merchant’s Bank of Dutch John. Through the open doorway of his private office he could see the large hand on the clock click over to 11:59. With perfect timing, the chief clerk intercepted the rough-edged customers.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen. We are about to close for the dinner hour. Can you possibly come back at one this afternoon?”

The better dressed of the pair spoke in well-rounded tones. “We won’t be long. I promise you that.”

It was then that Walter Higgins noticed three more men crowd in behind. They had the disreputable appearance of saddle trash.
Oh, God,
the banker thought,
we are going to be robbed.
Sure enough, the last one in turned around, shot the bolt, and drew the blinds. Higgins sent an unwilling hand to the drawer that contained his revolver.

That was when weapons appeared in the hands of the desperados. The softly spoken one put steel in his voice this time. “I wouldn’t finish that reach, Mr. Banker.”

For some unaccountable reason, Walter answered through trembling lips. “Higgins. My name is Higgins.”

“Now, that’s quite all right, Mr. Higgins. You see, we’ve come to make a major withdrawal.” Gus Jaeger gestured with the muzzle of his Colt to the teller cages. “Get to it, boys.”

To add insult to injury, the outlaws stuffed all the cash and coin into canvas bank bags and secured the leather tops to buckles by their straps. Although he had never had his bank robbed before, Walter Higgins felt certain that he was behaving in the proper manner. If only he could keep his mouth shut.

“You’ll not get away with this. The Mormon Militia has an outpost not far from town. They’ll hunt you down, you know.”

Two of the lowlifes sniggered. “Watch us tremble,
Mister
Higgins,” Jaeger sneered.

This could not be happening. The tall, thin one who had been speaking pushed through the rail that divided the working part of the bank from its lobby and went directly to the vault. Walter Higgins half-rose from his chair.

“There’s nothing in there,” he blurted in a chill of anxiety.

“Let’s let me find that out for myself.” Gus continued to advance of the big, walk-in safe. “Oh, my,” he announced a moment after entering. “If it wasn’t your job to protect your depositors’ valuables, I would be quite angry at you for lying,” he informed Higgins. “As it is, I’ll simply ask you to come help me fill up a few bags.”

Higgins raised a hand that shook as though palsied. “I cannot. It would make me…culpable.”

Jaeger’s head appeared around the two-foot-thick brick wall of the vault. “That’s a new word for me. What’s it mean?”

“It means that if I help you, in the eyes of the law it would be as though I robbed my own bank.”

Gus Jaeger smiled nastily. “I’m sure you would find some way of explaining it. Now get in here or I’ll blow you clear to Kingdom Come.”

Walter Higgins wanted to sob. Shoulders slumped, he got up on his high-button shoes and shambled to the opening. For a wild second he thought of slamming the vault door on the outlaw and thus trap him for the law. Then hope died as he realized that it took two men to close the door. Inside, Higgins meekly held the bags, while the robber scooped stacks of banded bills off the shelves. A sickening sensation spread from his middle. There had to be at least 25,000 dollars here. A vast fortune. And he would be held responsible. He wanted to speak out, to refuse. One look at those cold, hazel eyes convinced him not to. At last it was over. Three sheaves of five-dollar bills remained.

With a nasty smirk, the robber pointed to them. “I’ll leave a little seed stock. Thank you for your contribution.”