Code of the Mountain Man (19 page)

“Ah ... no,” Sharp admitted.

“Any of you?” Larry questioned.

The marshals all looked embarrassed.

“This is going to be quite an expedition we're mounting,” Larry mused.

Far in the distance, the faint sounds of gunshots drifted to them.

“I think we'd better forego breakfast,” Larry said.

* * *

“Let them bang away,” Smoke said. “They're far out of range and shooting uphill. All they're doing is wasting ammunition.”

Louis lay behind cover and counted puffs of smoke until he grew tired of counting. He looked at Smoke. “Over thirty down there.”

“And more coming,” Smoke replied, cutting his eyes to the East.

Sally was looking through field glasses. “Eleven of them. And another bunch right behind them.”

“How many in the second bunch, honey?”

“They're too far off to make out yet. Now they've disappeared into the timber.”

“Gathering like blowflies on a carcass,” Louis said, his words filled with contempt. “Blowflies one day and maggots the next.”

The three of them were in a natural rock depression with a clear field of fire in all directions except the rear. They had hauled in branches and dead logs the previous afternoon and stacked them to their rear, against the stone face. The wood would soak up slugs and would prevent any ricochets. They had lain in a goodly supply of dry dead wood and had eaten a hardy breakfast and had a fresh pot of hot coffee ready to drink.

Sally suddenly giggled. Smoke looked at her. “You want to tell me what's so funny about this situation?”

“You remember me telling you about a man named Larry Tibbson?”

“The lawyer fellow from New York who tried to spark you when you both were in college?”

“That's whim.”

“What about him?”

She brought him up to date.

Smoke chuckled, the humor touching his eyes. “He's got nerve, I'll give him that. Does he have any idea what might have happened to him had I been home?”

“I think he does now.”

Louis poured them all coffee in tin cups and passed them around. The air was cold early in the morning; the hot coffee and the small fire felt good to them as they waited.

The firing stopped.

“They'll be moving soon,” Louis said. His eyes touched the eyes of Smoke. The gambler minutely nodded his head. While Sally had slept, Smoke and Louis had talked. Smoke and Sally's children could get along without a father, but they needed a mother. If bad turned to worse, Louis was to take Sally and make a run for it, even if he had to punch her unconscious to do it. The dynamite was in place, and if Smoke was trapped on this side of the narrow pass, so be it.

“They're moving,” Sally said. “They'll be able to get within range of us.”

“Yes. Then we'll start picking them off,” Louis said. “We have all the advantage. Our position is like a fort. We're shooting downhill, and that is easier to compensate for than shooting uphill. We have food and water and warmth. Know this now, Sally: come the night, they'd overrun us. At dusk, we're going to start the avalance and make a run for it. I ...”

“I heard you both talking last night,” she said softly. “You won't have to knock me out to make me go.” She opened her pack and took out a smaller package wrapped in canvas. “These are medicines and bandages, Smoke. Potions to help relieve pain and to fight infection. I did not include any laudanum. I knew even if you were badly hurt, you wouldn't take it.”

He kissed her gently while Louis discreetly looked away, a smile on his lips. She clung to him for a moment, then pulled back and squared her shoulders and took several deep breaths, getting her emotions under control and blinking away the tears that had gathered. “You come back to me now, you hear me, Smoke Jensen?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Smoke smiled at her. “I'm going to take some lead, honey,” Smoke told her. “I'd have to be the luckiest man alive not to. But I'll make it out of this. And that's a promise.”

A slug thudded into the logs they had placed against the rock wall behind them.

“They're in range,” Louis said.

Smoke and Sally moved into position. Sally had lain aside her short-barreled carbine and had taken a longer-barreled, more accurate lever action from the saddle boot of a dead outlaw. She lined up the sights on part of a leg that was sticking out from behind a large rock and squeezed off a round.

The man started screaming hideously.

“You busted his knee, baby,” Smoke told her.

“That's too bad,” she said with a wicked grin. “I was aiming a little higher than that.”

“Cease and desist,” Mills shouted to a group of riders. “I'm a United States Marshal.”

The riders all jerked iron and began pouring lead at the marshals and Larry. They dove for cover, leading their horses into timber.

“I'm a deputy sheriff of this county!” Larry shouted. “I order you in the name of the law to stop this immediately.”

A slug howled past his nose and slammed into a tree, spraying him with bits of bark and bloodying his chin.

“Cretinous son of a bitch!” Larry mumbled, from his suddenly attained position flat on his belly on the ground. “No respect for law and order.”

“You're learning,” Mills said. “I had to.”

The riders dismounted and took cover, continuing their firing at the marshals and Larry.

“Did you recognize any of them?” Winston asked.

“No. I think they're bounty hunters. But that doesn't make any difference now.” Mills eared back the hammer on his Winchester.

“What do you mean?” Larry asked.

“They were warned as to who we are; they ignored that and fired at lawmen. That makes them criminals.” Mills sighted in one of the manhunters who had taken cover behind a tree that was just a tiny bit too small. He shot the man and knocked him sprawling. “Fire, damnit!” he ordered his men.

* * *

Two of the outlaws, or bounty hunters – the trio on the mountain didn't know and didn't care which – tried to carry the man with the busted knee down the slope. Smoke and Louis dropped them. The wounded man began his long rolling slide down the slope, screaming in pain as he hit rocks and scrub bushes. When he reached a flat, he lay still, either dead or unconscious.

“Riders coming,” Sally announced, handing Smoke the field glasses.

Smoke studied the men. “Luttie Charles and his bunch. I count ... ten, no, eleven of them.”

“Getting crowded down there,” Louis remarked, biting the end off of an expensive imported cigar he'd taken from a silver holder and lighting up. When the ash was to his liking he laid the stogie aside and punched two more rounds into his rifle and jacked back the hammer, sighting in on an exposed forearm.

“That's a good hundred and fifty yards,” Smoke said. “Five dollars says you can't make the shot.”

“You just lost five dollars,” the millionaire industralist /adventurer/gambler said, and squeezed the trigger.

The man yelled as the slug rendered his arm useless. He rolled to one side and exposed a boot. Smoke shot him in the foot, and the outlaw began the slow slide down the slope, hollering and screaming as he rolled and slid downward.

One man jumped out from cover to stop his buddy and Smoke, Sally, and Louis dusted the ground all around him. It was too far for accurate shooting, but after doing a little dancing, the outlaw jumped back into cover, unhit but with a new respect for those three on the mountain.

The arm and foot-shot outlaw rolled off a plateau and fell screaming for several hundred feet. His screaming stopped when he impacted with solid rock. It sounded like a big watermelon dropped from a rooftop to a brick street.

“Fall back! Fall back!” the shout drifted to the trio. “This ain't no good. We'll take them come the night.”

“Nap time,” Louis said, and promptly stretched out, his hat over his face, and went to sleep.

* * *

The bounty hunters – those left alive – called out their surrender to Mills. They had suffered two dead and four wounded. Mills ordered the dead buried. When that was done, he lined up the living.

“I just don't have the time to arrest you properly and transport you into Rio for trial and incarceration,” he told them. “But I have your names – whether they are your real names is a mystery that might never be solved – and your weapons. Ride out of here and don't come back. If I ever see any of you again, I shall place you under arrest and guarantee you all long prison terms. Now, move!”

The manhunters gone, the marshals and Larry exchanged glances. They were all a little shaky from the fire-fight, but all knew they had grown a bit in the experience field.

“I would say we conducted ourselves rather well,” Larry said, trying to stuff and light his pipe with trembling fingers. He finally gave it up and put the pipe into a pocket.

“You did well,” Mills said, putting a hand on Larry's shoulder. “I believe we all proved our mettle. I'm proud to ride with you, Larry.”

“The shooting appears to have stopped,” Moss said, looking toward the high peaks where they believed Smoke to be holed up.

“That's still a good day's ride from here,” Mills said. “Let's get cracking.”

* * *

The day dragged slowly on without another shot being exchanged. The outlaws and bounty hunters built fires for cooking and for warmth and waited for the night.

Smoke was silent for a time, deep in thought. Finally he made up his mind. He looked at his wife. “I want you gone from here, Sally, while there is good light to travel. I don't see the point in waiting for the night. It's a pretty good bet that nearly all of the manhunters and outlaws are right down there below us. You should have an easy ride back to Rio. Louis, take her out of here.”

“All right,” the gambler said. “I agree with you. But first let's load you up full and get you all the advantage we can give you.”

They had taken all the rifles from the saddle boots of the dead outlaws and bounty hunters, as well as a dozen pistols. They were all loaded up full and placed within Smoke's reach. It would give him a tremendous amount of firepower before having to stop and reload.

Louis slipped out behind the rock wall to saddle up the horses and give Smoke and Sally a few moments alone.

“I'll make one last plea and then say no more about it,” Sally said. “Come with us.”

Smoke shook his head. “They'd just follow us, and we'd have to deal with it some other place. They'd probably even follow us back to the Sugarloaf or into town and that would get innocent people hurt or killed. So I might as well get it over with here and now.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “See you in Rio, honey.”

“You better get there,” she told him with a forced grin. “ 'Cause if you don't, I'm going to be awfully angry.”

“Let's go,” Louis called from behind the rock wall. “We've got some clouds moving in.”

Smoke shook hands with the gambler, and then they were gone, the rock wall concealing their departure from the many blood-hungry eyes below them.

Smoke put a fresh pot of coffee on to boil and gave the long fuses leading from his position to the dynamite a visual once-over. Everything seemed in order. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, and then rolled a cigarette and drank several cups of coffee. He knew it was going to be a very long and boring afternoon. But he was going to have to stay alert for any kind of sneak attack the outlaws might decide to launch at him.

Twice he went back to check on his horse. The animal seemed well rested and ready to go. The last time, with about an hour of daylight left, Smoke saddled him up and secured his gear.

As the shadows began to lengthen over the land, Smoke checked all his weapons. He could see the men moving toward him. A lot of men. He checked both flanks; men were moving in and out of the sparse timber and coming toward him. Still out of range, but not for long.

Smoke emptied the coffee pot and kicked out the fire, leaving only a few smoldering sticks. He drank his coffee and pulled his .44-.40 to his shoulder, sighting a man in and gently squeezing the trigger. The rifle fired, and the man fell to his knees, tried to get up, and then pitched forward on his face. Smoke shifted positions and emptied one rifle into the thin timber on his left flank. A scream came from the shadowy scrub. He emptied another rifle into that area and several men ran out, one limping badly, all of them heading down as fast as they dared, getting out of range.

Lead began howling off the rocks in front of him while others slammed into the logs behind him. Men began rushing from cover to cover, panting heavily in the thin mountain air. This high up, the heart must work harder. Smoke fired and one man did not have to worry about breathing any longer. The .44-.40 slug hit him in the face and tore off most of his jaw. He rolled and bounced his way down the mountain, leaving smears of blood along the way.

Rock splinters bloodied Smoke's face. He wiped the blood away and shifted to the other side, firing as he went, so the others would not know he was alone on the mountain.

On the right side of his little fort, Smoke noted with some alarm how close the manhunters were getting. He looked straight down the mountain. Men were moving in on him, working their way from sparse cover to sparse cover ... but still coming. He ended the journey for two of them, head and neck shots. Smoke grabbed up a .44 carbine and began spraying the lead below him as fast as he could work the lever. That one empty, he grabbed up another and ran to the other side. The manhunters were getting closer. Too damn close. A slug ripped through the outside upper part of his left arm, bringing a grunt of pain.

Time to go!

He ignored the pain and ripped his shirt to see how bad it was. Not too bad. He tied a bandana around the wound, then picked up a smoldering stick and lit the fuses. Smoke ran behind the rock wall and grabbed the horse's reins, running and leading the horse toward the narrow pass. He did not want to be in the saddle when the explosives went off. It was going to make a hell of a lot of noise, and the horse would be spooked.

“I think we got him, boys!” a man yelled. “Let's go, let's go.”

The outlaws and manhunters came screaming and yelling triumphantly up the mountain. When no shots greeted them, they began cheering and slapping each other on the back.

The explosives blew, each charge five to ten seconds behind the other. One of Lee's co-leaders, Horton, about seventy-five yards from the small fort, looked up in horror at the tons of rock cascading toward them. He put a hand in front of his face as if that alone would stop the deadly thunder. A watermelon-sized rock, hurtling through the air, took his hand and drove it into his head.

His buddy, Max, seemed to be rooted to the mountain side, numbed with fear. He would forever be a part of the mountain as tons of rock buried him.

Pecos and his gang of young punks had not advanced nearly so far as the others. Screaming in terror, they ran into the timber and were safe from the deadly cascade.

McKay's legs were crushed, and Ray was pinned under a boulder. Both lay screaming, watching their blood stain the ground and life slowly ebb from them.

Lee Slater and his group, Al Martine and his pack of no-goods, and part of another team watched from below as the carnage continued high above them.

Al lifted field glasses and grimaced as he watched through the thick dust as Sonny tried to outrun the rampaging tons of rock. He could see the man's face was tight and white from mind-numbing fear. Sonny was swallowed by the rocks. All but one arm. It stuck out of the huge pile, the fingers working, opening and closing for a moment, a silent scream for help. The fingers suddenly stiffened into a human claw and stayed that way. As soon as the buzzards spotted it they would rip, tear, and eat it to the bone.

Jere and Summers almost made it. They had lost their weapons and were running and falling and stumbling down the mountain. Their mouths were working in soundless screams, the pale lips vivid in their frightened faces. Several huge boulders hit a stalled rockpile and came over, seeming to gain speed as they traveled through the air.

“Split up!” Al yelled. But his warning came too late and could not be heard over the now-gradually dying roar of the avalanche.

The boulders landed square on the running men, squashing them against the rock surface of the mountain.

Al Martine crossed himself and cursed the day he ever agreed to leave California.

A bounty hunter known only as Chris turned to look behind him and tripped, falling hard, knocking the wind from him. “No!” he screamed, just seconds before the tons of rock landed on him. One boot stuck out of the now-motionless pile of stone. The boot trembled for a moment, then was still.

Huge clouds of dust began drifting upward to join the night skies.

“I'd a not believed no one man could have done all this,” Whit said, his voice husky from near exhaustion. He sank to his knees and put his hands to his face, trying to block from his mind all that he'd just witnessed.

Mac came limping out of the dust, dragging one foot. Reed was behind him. He did not appear to be hurt.

Luttie Charles, accompanied by his men, walked slowly up the slope to stand by his brother.

“Incredible,” Luttie said, his voice small.

They all cringed and jumped, some yelling and running away, as another dull thud cut the darkening day.

“Musta been a pass back yonder,” Milt said. “And Jensen just blowed it.”

Rod and Randy giggled.

“Loco!” Lopez muttered.

Luttie started counting. Thirty men left standing here out of nearly seventy. Maybe eight or ten bounty hunters still working the wilderness alone. He coughed as the dust from the avalanche drifted down the mountain. Luttie waved his people farther back.

“We'll make camp at the base down yonder,” he said, pointing. “Eat and rest and tomorrow we can take him.”

“How you figure that?” his brother asked.

“You're forgetting, I know this country.” He turned to his foreman, and the man grinned.

“I'll take two of the boys and plug up the only hole out of that area,” the man said. “The gambler and the woman probably done made it out, but Smoke won't try it at night – too dangerous. We got him now, boss. Pinned in like a hog for slaughter.”