Trail Of The Mountain Man//Revenge Of The Mountain Man - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Johnstone (ч. 5)

John jumped up. “Are you serious?” he shouted.

“Hell, Mr. Reynolds,” York said, “that ain’t but six or seven apiece. I recall the time down near the Painted Rock me and two other guys fought off a hundred or more ’paches. Kilt about forty of ’em.”

He turned his head and winked at Louis.

“But those were savages!” John protested, not sure whether he believed the ranger’s story or not.

Louis said, “Believe you me, John, Davidson and his bunch are just as savage as any Apache that ever lived.”

Then Smoke told the man about some of the methods of torture Rex and Dagget enjoyed at Dead River.

The lawyer left the room. A few seconds later, they could hear him retching in the water closet.

“I believe you finally convinced him,” Sally said.

John returned to the study, his face pale. “Son,” he said to Smoke, “I’ll start cleaning my shotguns and my rifle.”

The nights were cool and the days were pleasantly warm as autumn slipped into the northeast. Smoke, for the most part, stayed close to the Reynolds house; York and Louis spent their days riding around the countryside, ranging from the Vermont line to the west, up to Claremont to the north, over to Manchester to the east, and down to the state line to the south.

There was no sign of Davidson or any of his men, and Smoke began to wonder if he had figured wrong. But there was still that nagging suspicion in his gut that the outlaws were on their way and that they would make their move before the first snow. And the first possible snow, John had said, would probably come around the middle of November.

The twins were growing fast. They were fat and healthy babies, who laughed and gurgled and hollered and bawled and messed their diapers.

It was fascinating to John to watch the gunslinger with the big rough hands handle the babies with such gentleness. And the twins responded to the firm gentleness, apparently loving the touch of the big, rough-looking man who, or so it seemed to John Reynolds, never took off his guns.

The sheriff of the county and the chief of police of the town came to see Smoke, demanding to know what was going on: Why had the three come to town? What were they still doing in town?

Smoke answered that he had come to town to see his wife’s family, and that he was still in town waiting for the babies to get big enough to travel.

Neither the sheriff nor the chief believed Smoke’s explanation. But neither the sheriff nor the chief wanted to be the one to call him a liar.

For exercise, Smoke took a wagon out into the timber and spent the better part of several days chopping wood. He chopped enough wood to last the Reynolds family most of the winter, and he stacked it neatly.

On one cool and crisp afternoon in November, Louis rode over and chatted with Smoke, who was currying Drifter. York lounged nearby, the thongs off the hammers of his .44s. Only Smoke and Sally noticed that.

“Four of them left St. Louis a week ago,” Louis said, leaning up against a stall wall. “My man was certain that one of them was Davidson. They bought tickets for Boston. Six hard-looking western men pulled out of New York City day before yesterday, after buying some fine horseflesh. Some others pulled into Pittsburgh on the river more than a month ago, bought supplies and horses, and left within a week. Still another group rode the cars from Nebraska to St. Louis, bought horses, and left weeks ago. It’s taken my people some time to put all this together.”

Louis’s people, Smoke had learned, included not only foot-padders and whores, but paid members of the Pinkertons.

“So we can look for them by the end of the week,” Smoke said, continuing to curry Drifter. “But Davidson is too smart to come riding into town in a gang, shooting the place up. From what you’ve said, I gather we’ll be looking at twenty to twenty-five men.”

“At least,” the gambler agreed. “I’d guess close to thirty.” Smoke was silent for a moment, trying to recall a news article he’d read several weeks back. Then it came to him.

“There was an Army depot robbed down in Maryland several weeks back. Did either of you read that article?”

Louis snapped his fingers. “Yes! I did. Uniforms and military equipment taken. Smoke, do you think—?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. That would probably be the group who left St. Louis weeks ago.” He was thoughtful. “Let’s play it that way. I sure wish we had Jim Wilde and a few of the boys up here with us.”

“Yes. That would be nice,” Louis concurred. “But it’s too late to get them here. Do we still play it close to the vest?”

Smoke sighed. “Louis, I’ve been thinking about that. I can’t put these peoples’ lives in danger. They’ve got a right to know what and who is about to enter this area. As bad as I hate to do it, when the so-called Army patrol is sighted, I’m going to level with the sheriff and the chief of police.”

“And Mr. Reynolds?” York asked.

“I’ll do that as soon as he comes in from the office.”

John Reynolds listened, his face impassive. When Smoke concluded, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I’m glad you decided to confide in me, Son. I felt that you would, after further thought, take the lives of the people of this community under deeper consideration.”

“John, listen to me,” Smoke urged. “Where is the nearest military unit based?”

“Why…New York State, I’m sure. But we have a fine militia here in New Hampshire. I’ll get right on it the first thing in the morning. I’ll wire the governor and he’ll see to it immediately.”

John did not see the look that passed between the three gunfighters.

“How long is this going to take, sir?” York was the one who asked.

“Oh, several days, I’m sure. The governor has to sign the orders mobilizing the unit, then the men have to be notified and moved into place…” He fell silent with a curt wave of Smoke’s hand. “What is it, Son?”

“We don’t have time, John. Not for all that. Can you contact the governor tonight and have him notify the Army?”

“I’m…why, certainly. And tell the Army what?”

“Of our suspicions.”

“I’ll get a wire off immediately.” He shrugged into his coat and called for his buggy. He looked at Smoke. “I’ll handle this part of it, Son. Be back in half an hour.”

When he returned, his face was long. “The governor is taking an early Thanksgiving vacation.” He grimaced. “A very early Thanksgiving vacation. I sent a wire to the commanding officer of the Army post over in New York State. He’s in Washington, D.C., for some sort of hearings. Son, we appear to be hitting a stone wall every way we turn in this matter.”

“I got a bad feelin’ about this thing,” York said. “I got a feelin’ it’s gonna break loose on us tomorrow.”

“And those are my sentiments, as well,” Louis agreed. “What is your opinion of the sheriff and the chief of police, John?”

“Oh, they’re good men. But with only a small force between them.”

Smoke and Louis and York had already checked on the cops in the town and county. A very small force. Five men, to be exact. But they all agreed the cops and deputies checked out to be good, stable men. But not gunfighters.

The hall clock chimed. It was growing late. “We see them first thing in the morning,” Smoke said.

“I’ve packed my things,” Louis said. “I’ll stay here, with your permission, John.”

“Of course, of course. I insist that the both of you stay.” He glanced at York, received a nod, then looked at Smoke. “We’ll see the sheriff and the chief first thing in the morning.”

The sheriff was very indignant. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have leveled with us first thing, Marshal,” he said to Smoke.

“Because by doing that, you would have alerted the militia and the Army and deputized every man in the county. And that would have scared them off.”

“So? That would have been a bad thing?”

“In a way, yes. They would have just laid back and hit you when you stood the men down and sent them home. How many men can you muster? Good men, Sheriff.”

“Jensen, we don’t have gunfighters in this town. We have shopkeepers and schoolteachers and farmers and small businessmen. And a nice fat bank,” he added grimly.

“How fat?” Louis inquired.

The sheriff hesitated. But Louis Longmont was known worldwide, not only for his talents with a gun and with cards, but also as a very rich man. “Very fat, Mr. Longmont. And need I remind you all that today is the last day of the month?”

Payday for most working people. The bank would have pulled in more money to meet the demand.

“They planned it well,” Smoke said, as much to himself as to the others. “How well do the people listen to you, Sheriff?”

The question caught the lawman off guard. “Why…I don’t know what you mean. They elected me.”

“What I mean is, if you told them to stay off the streets today, would they heed your words?”

“I feel certain they would.”

The door to the office burst open and a flustered-looking stationmaster stepped in.

“What’s the matter, Bob?” Chief of Police Harrison asked.

“I can’t get a wire out in any direction, Harrison. My unit is dead as a hammer.”

Louis snapped his fingers. “They’re planning on using the train to get away. Remember all the horses I was told they’d bought, Smoke? They’ve stashed them along the railway, and they’ll ride the train north to their horses.”

“Huh? Huh?” the stationmaster asked, his eyes darting from man to man.

“And the uniforms they stole were not meant to be used here,” Smoke added. “They’ll be used as a getaway after they’ve ridden the train north. And it will be north. When they get close to the Canadian line, they’ll peel out of those uniforms and ride across as civilians, after splitting up.”

The mayor of Keene had stepped in while Louis was talking. “What’s all this?” George Mahaffery asked. “I’m trying to get a wire out to my sister in Hanover, Bob. Old Sully tells me the wires are down. What’s going on here?”

Nobody paid any attention to Hizzonor.

Sheriff Poley pointed at his lone deputy on duty that day. “Peter, get the women and the kids off the streets. Arm the men.”

“Oh, crap!” York muttered.

“I demand to know what is going on around here?” the mayor hollered.

Nobody paid any attention to him.

Smoke stopped the deputy. “Just hold on, partner.” To Sheriff Poley: “You’re gonna get a bunch of good men hurt or killed, Sheriff.”

Poley stuck out his chest. “What the hell do you mean by that, Marshal?”

“This is New Hampshire, Sheriff, not Northfield, Minnesota. Parts of Minnesota is still wild and woolly. When is the last time any man in this town fired a gun in anger?”

That brought the sheriff up short.

“Goddamn!” Mayor Mahaffery hollered. “Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on around here?”

“Shut up,” York said to him.

Hizzonor’s mouth dropped open in shock. Nobody ever talked to him in such a manner.

“And keep it shut,” York added.

“I’d guess the Civil War, Marshal,” Poley finally answered Smoke’s question.

“That’s what I mean, Sheriff. Ten men, Sheriff. That’s all I want. Ten good solid men. Outdoorsmen if possible.”

The deputy named a few and the sheriff added a few more. The stationmaster named several.

“That’ll do,” Smoke halted the countdown. “Get them, and tell them to arm themselves as heavily as possible and be down here in one hour.” He glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. “When’s the next train come in?”

“Two passengers today, Marshal,” Bob told him. “Northbound’s due in at eleven o’clock.”

“They’ll hit the bank about ten-forty-five then,” Louis ventured a guess.

“That’s the way I see it,” Smoke’s words were soft. “But when will they hit the Reynolds house? Before, or after?”

Farmer Jennings Miller and his wife had left the day before to visit their oldest daughter over in Milford. That move saved their lives, for the Miller farm was the one that had been chosen by Dagget for a hideout until it was time to strike.

The outlaws had moved in during the last two nights, riding in by ones and twos, stabling their horses in the Millers’ huge barn.

The outlaws had been hitting banks on their way east and had amassed a goodly sum of money. This was to be their last bank job before moving into Canada to lay low for as long as need be.

And Davidson was paying them all extra for this job, and paying them well. The bank was only secondary; the primary target was Sally Jensen and the babies.

Studs Woodenhouse had three men with him. Tie Medley had four from his original gang left. Paul Rycroft had brought two men with him. Slim Bothwell had three. Shorty, Jake, and Red. Brute Pitman. Tustin. LaHogue. Glen Moore. Lapeer. Dagget. Rex Davidson.

Twenty-six men in all. Over one hundred thousand dollars in reward money lay on their heads.

All were wanted for multiple murders, at least. The outlaws had nothing at all to lose.

“Let’s start gettin’ the saddles on the horses,” Davidson ordered. He laughed. “One damn mile from the center of town, and nobody ever thought to look here. It was a good plan, Dagget.”

“All I want is a shot at that damned John Reynolds,” Dagget growled. “I want to gut-shoot that fancy-talkin’ lawyer so’s it’ll take him a long time to die.”

“They any kids in the Reynolds house?” Brute asked. “Say ten or eleven years old?”

No one answered the man. He was along solely because of his ability to use a gun and his nerves of steel. Other than that, no one had any use at all for Brute Pitman.

Not even his horse liked him.

The outlaws began a final check of their guns. They were going in heavily armed, and Rex Davidson had said he wanted the streets to run red with Yankee bluenose blood: Men, women, and kids; didn’t make a damn to him.

And it didn’t make a damn to the outlaws. Just as long as Davidson paid in cash or gold.

They had gotten a third of the money. The other two-thirds they’d receive in Canada.

Two men eased out of the cold house and slipped to the barn to curry and then saddle their mounts.

“I sure will be glad to have me a hot cup of coffee,” Tie bitched.

“You want to take a chance on smoke being seen from the chimney?” Dagget asked him.

“I ain’t complainin’,” Tie replied. “I just wish I had a cup of coffee, that’s all.”

“Coffee on the train,” Rex told them all. “And probably some pretty women.”

“Yeah!” several of the outlaws perked up.

“And maybe some children,” Brute grinned.

The outlaw seated next to Brute got up and moved away, shaking his head.

Good men, Smoke thought, after looking at the men that had been chosen. Not gunfighters, but good, solid, dependable men. Their weapons were not what Smoke would have chosen for his own use, but they seemed right in the hands of local citizens. Their pistols were worn high, in flap holsters; but they wouldn’t be called upon to do any fast-draw work.

Smoke looked outside. The streets of the town were empty. The storeowners had locked their doors but left the shades up, to give the impression that all was well.

“You men are going to protect the bank and other buildings along Main Street,” Smoke told the locals. “When you get the bastards in gunsights, pull the damn trigger! We don’t have time to be nice about it. You’re all veterans of the Army. You’ve all seen combat. This is war, and the outlaws are the enemy. The sheriff has deputized you, and I’ve given you federal commissions. You’re protected both ways. Now get into the positions the sheriff has assigned you and stay put. Good luck.”

The men filed out and began taking up positions. Some were hidden behind barrels and packing crates in alley openings. Others were on the second floor of the buildings on both sides of the street.

The sheriff and his deputy, the chief of police and his one man on duty, armed themselves and took their positions.

Smoke, Louis, and York swung in their saddles and began a slow sweep of the town.

At the Reynolds home, the twins had been taken down into the basement, where a warm fire had been built, and they were being looked after by Abigal and her daughter-in-law.

“I say, Father,” Walter asked, his hair disheveled and his face flushed with excitement, “whatever can Jordan and I do?”

“Stand aside and don’t get in the way,” the father ordered, picking up a double-barreled shotgun and breaking it down, loading it with buckshot. He did the same to two more shotguns and then loaded a lever-action rifle. He checked the loads in the pistols Smoke had given him and poured another cup of coffee. Cowboy coffee. John was beginning to like the stuff. Really pepped a man up!

He shoved two six-shooters in his belt, one on each side. Then he took up another notch in his belt to keep his pants from falling down.

“Who is that man running across the street?” Walter asked, peering out the window.

John looked. “This isn’t a man, Son. That’s Martha, in men’s jeans.”

“Good Lord, Father!” Jordan blurted. “That’s indecent!”

John looked at the shapely figure bounding up onto the front porch. He smiled. “That’s…not exactly the way I’d describe the lass, boy.” He opened the door and let her in.

Martha carried a Smith & Wesson pocket .32 in her right hand. She grinned at John. “You know me, Mr. Reynolds. I’ve always been somewhat of a tomboy.”

“Sally is guarding the back door, Martha. She is…ah…also in men’s britches.”

“Yes.” Martha grinned. “We bought them at the same time.” She walked back to the rear of the house.

Sally was sitting by the rear window, a rifle in her hand. She had a shotgun leaning up against the wall and wore a six-gun belt around her waist.

“Can you really shoot all those guns?” Martha asked.

“Can and have, many times. And if you’re moving west, you’d better learn how.”

“I think today is going to be a good day for that.”

“The Indians have a saying, Martha: It’s a good day to die.”

“I say, Father,” Jordan asked, “wherever do you want us to be posted?”

John looked at his two sons. He loved them both but knew that they were rather on the namby-pamby side. Excellent attorneys, both of them. But in a situation like the one about to face them all, about as useless as balls on a bedpost.

John laughed at his own vulgarity. “I think it would please your mother very much, boys, if you would consent to guard them in the basement.”

They consented and moved out. Smartly.

Sally came in and checked on her father. She grinned at him and patted him on the shoulder. “You look tough as a gunslinger, Father.”

“I feel like an idiot!” He grinned at her. “But I do think I am capable of defending this house and all in it against thugs and hooligans.”

“There isn’t a doubt in my mind about that, Father. Don’t leave your post. I’ll handle the back.”

Probably with much more proficiency and deadliness than I will handle the front, he thought.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek and winked at her.

“Don’t let them get on the porch, Father,” she cautioned the man. “When you get them in gunsights, let ’er bang.”

He laughed. “I shall surely endeavor to do that, darling!”

Smoke rode alone to the edge of town, and the huge barn to the southeast caught his eyes. There was no smoke coming from the chimney of the house, and the day was cool enough for a fire. He wondered about that, then put it out of his mind. He turned Drifter’s head and rode slowly back to town.

The town appeared deserted.

But he knew that behind the closed doors and shuttered windows of the homes, men and women and kids were waiting and watching. And the people of the town were taking the news of the outlaws’ arrival calmly, obeying the sheriff’s orders without question.

Smoke, York, and Louis, all in the saddle, met in the center of town.

“What’s the time, Louis?” Smoke asked.

The gambler checked his gold watch. “Ten-fifteen, and not a creature is stirring,” he said with a small smile.

“Unless they’re hidin’ awful close,” York said, rolling a tight cigarette, “they’re gonna have to make their first move damn quick.”

Smoke looked around him at the quiet town. “They’re close. Maybe no more than a mile or two outside of town. I’ve been thinking, boys. Jim Wilde told me that those ledger books of Davidson’s showed him to be a very rich man; money in all sorts of banks…in different banks, under different names, Jim guessed. The assumed names weren’t shown. So why would he be interested in knocking off a bank? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“You think the primary target is Sally and the babies?” Louis asked.

“Yes. And something else. John Reynolds told me that Dagget has hated the Reynolds family for years, even before he got into trouble and had to leave.”

“So John and Abigal might also be targets.”

“Yes.”

“This Dagget, he have any family still livin’ in town?” York asked.

Smoke shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’d bet he does.”

“But Dagget would still know the town,” Louis mused aloud.

“Yes. And he would know where the best hiding places were.”

“And he just might have supporters still livin’ here,” York interjected.

“There is that, too.”

The men sat their horses for a moment, quiet, just listening to the near silence.

“Me and Louis been talkin’. Smoke, we’ll take the main street. You best head on over toward the Reynolds place.”

Smoke nodded and tightened the reins. “See you boys.” He rode slowly toward the Reynolds house.

York and Louis turned the other way, heading for the main street of town.

Smoke put Drifter in the stable behind the house but left the saddle on him. Pulling his rifle from the boot, he walked around the big house on the corner. The house directly across the street, on the adjacent corner, was empty. The home facing the front porch was occupied. John had said the family had taken to the basement. To the rear and the left of the Reynolds house, looking from the street, the lots were owned by John; in the summers, neat patches of flowers were grown by Abigal.

Smoke stood on the front porch, the leather hammer thongs off his .44s, the Henry repeating rifle, loaded full with one in the chamber, held in his left hand. Without turning around, he called, “What’s the time, John?”

“Ten-thirty, Son,” John called through the closed front door.

“They’ll hit us in about ten minutes. Relax, John. Have another cup of coffee. If you don’t mind, pour me one while you’re at it. I’ll keep an eye on the front.”

The man is utterly, totally calm, John thought, walking through the house to the kitchen. Not a nerve in his entire body. He looked at his daughter. Sally was sitting in a straight-back chair by a kitchen window, her rifle lying across her lap. She looked as though she just might decide to take a nap.

“Coffee, girls?”

“Thanks, Father. Yes, if you don’t mind.”

Calm, John thought. But then, he suddenly realized, so am I!

Amazing.

“Why hasn’t the Army been notified?” Mayor Mahaffery demanded an answer from the sheriff.

Sheriff Poley puffed on his pipe before replying. “Wire is down, George. ’Sides, Mr. Reynolds tried to get in touch with the governor last night. He’s on a vacation. Tried to get in touch with the commander of that Army base over in New York State. He’s in Washington, D.C. Relax, George, we’ll handle it.”

George pulled a Dragoon out of his belt, the barrel about as long as his arm.

Sheriff Poley looked at the weapon dubiously. “Is that thing loaded, George?”

“Certainly, it’s loaded!” Hizzoner replied indignantly. “I carried it in the war!”

“What war?” Poley asked. “The French and Indian? Git away from me before you try to fire that thing, George. That thing blow up it’d tear down half the building.”

Muttering under his breath, George moved to another spot in the office.

“Look at those guys,” Deputy Peter Newburg said, awe in his voice.

“What guys?” Poley asked.

“Mr. Longmont and that Arizona Ranger, York. They’re just standing out on the sidewalk, big as brass. Got their coats pulled back so’s they can get at their guns. That York is just calm as can be rolling a cigarette.”

“Hell, the gambler is reading a damn newspaper!” George spoke up. “They behave as though they’re just waiting for a train!”

“In a way,” Poley said, “they are.”

“What time is it?” George asked.

Sheriff Poley looked at him. “About a minute later than the last time you asked.”

Before George could tell the sheriff what he could do with his smart remarks, the deputy said, “The gambler just jerked up his head and tossed the paper to the street. He’s lookin’ up Main.”

“Here they come!” a lookout shouted from atop a building. “And there’s a mob of them!”

Louis and York separated, with York ducking behind a horse trough and Louis stepping back into the shallow protection of a store well. Both had drawn their guns.

Tie Medley and his bunch were leading the charge, followed by Studs Woodenhouse and his gang, then Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell and their followers. Bringing up the rear were Tustin, LaHogue, Shorty, Red, and Jake. Davidson, Dagget, Lapeer, Moore, and Brute were not in the bunch.

Louis yelled out, “You men on the roof, fire, goddamnit, fire your rifles!”

But they held their fire, and both Louis and York knew why: They had not been fired upon. It was the age-old myth of the fair fight; but any realist knows there is no such thing as a fair fight. There is just a winner and a loser.

Louis stepped out of the store well and took aim. His first shot knocked a rider from the saddle. York triggered off a round and a splash of crimson appeared on an outlaw’s shirtfront, but he stayed in the saddle. A hard burst of returning fire from the outlaws sent Louis back into the store well and York dropping back behind the horse trough.

The outlaws took that time to ride up to the bank and toss a giant powder bomb inside; then they charged their horses into an alley. When the bomb went off, the blast blew all the windows out of the bank front and sent the doors sailing out into the street.

Smoke and dust clouded the street. The outlaws tossed another bomb at the rear of the bank building and the concussions could be felt all over the town. The outlaws rode their horses into the back of the bombed-out bank building, and while a handful worked at the safe, the others began blasting away from the shattered front of the building.

The suddenness and viciousness of the attack seemed to stun the sheriff, the chief, and the local volunteers. From the positions chosen by the lawmen, there was nothing for them to shoot at; everything was happening on their side of the street.

Pinned down and fighting alone, Louis lost his composure and shouted, “Will you yellow-bellied sons of bitches, goddamnit, fire your weapons!”

Of course the locals were not cowardly; not at all. They just were not accustomed to this type of thing. Things like this just didn’t happen in their town.

But Louis’s call did get their attention, which was all he wanted.

“Call me a yellow-bellied son of a bitch, will you?” Mayor George muttered, his ears still ringing from the bomb blasts. Before anyone could stop him, George charged out of the building and onto the sidewalk. Kneeling down, he cocked the Dragoon and squeezed the trigger.

The force of the weapon discharging knocked Hizzoner to the sidewalk. His round missed any outlaw in the bank, the slug traveling clear through the wall and into the hardware store, where it hit the ammunition case and set off several boxes of shotgun shells.

The outlaws in the bank thought they were coming under attack and began shooting in all directions.

George raised to his knees and let bang another round from the Dragoon.

The slug struck an outlaw in the chest and knocked him halfway across the room.

“Clear out!” Tie hollered. “We’re blowin’ the vault!”

Fifteen seconds later, it seemed the gates to Hell opened up in the little town in New Hampshire.

The force of the giant powder exploding sent half the roof flying off and blew one wall completely down. George Mahaffery ended up in Sheriff Poley’s lap and the chief of police found himself sitting on a spittoon, with no one really knowing how they got in their present positions.

“I got money in that bank!” a volunteer suddenly realized.

“Hell, so do I!” another called from a rooftop.

“Get ’em boys!” another called.

Then they all, finally, opened up.

“They just blew the bank building,” Smoke called.

“Place needed renovating anyway,” John returned the call.

Smoke laughed. “You’ll do, John. You’ll do!”

And John realized his son-in-law had just paid him one of the highest compliments a western man could give.

Smoke heard the pounding of hooves on the street and jerked up his Henry, easing back the hammer. He recognized Glen Moore. Bringing up the butt to his shoulder, Smoke shot the killer through the belly. Moore screamed as the pain struck him, but he managed to stay in the saddle. He galloped on down the street, turning into a side street.

Out of the corner of his eye, Smoke saw Brute Pitman cut in behind the house, galloping across the neatly tended lawn.

“Coming up your way, Sally!” Smoke called, then had no more time to wonder, for the lawn was filled with human scum.

Smoke began pulling and levering at almost point-blank range. Lapeer taking a half-dozen round in his chest. Behind him, Smoke could vaguely hear the sounds of breaking glass and then the booming of a shotgun. An outlaw Smoke did not know was knocked off the porch to his left, half his face blown away.

“Goddamned heathen!” Smoke heard John say. “Come on, you sorry scum!”

Smoke dropped the Henry and jerked out his six-guns just as he heard gunfire from the rear of the house. He heard Brute’s roar of pain and the sounds of a horse running hard.

Splinters flew out of a porch post and dug into Smoke’s cheek from a bullet. He dropped to one knee and leveled his .44s at Tustin, pulling the triggers. One slug struck the so-called minister in the throat and the other took him in the mouth.

Tustin’s preaching days were over. He rolled from his saddle and hit the ground.

“We’ve beaten them off!” John yelled, excitement in his voice.

“You stay in the house and keep a sharp lookout, John,” Smoke called. “Sally! You all right?”

“I’m fine, honey. But Martha and I got lead in that big ugly man.”

Brute Pitman.

And Smoke knew his plan to ride into town must wait; he could not leave this house until Brute was dead and Rex and the others were accounted for.

Reloading his guns, Smoke stepped off the porch and began a careful circling of the house and grounds.

Louis took careful aim and ended the outlaw career of Studs Woodenhouse, the slug from Longmont’s gun striking the outlaw leader dead center between the eyes. A bit of fine shooting from that distance.

A rifleman from a second-floor window brought down two of Davidson’s gang. Another volunteer ended the career of yet another. Several of the men had left their positions, at the calling of Sheriff Poley, and now the townspeople had the outlaws trapped inside the ruined bank.

One tried to make a break for it at the exact time Mayor George stepped out of the office, his Dragoon at the ready. The Dragoon spat fire and smoke and about a half pound of lead, the slug knocking the outlaw from his horse and dropping him dead on the cobblestones.

“Bastard!” George muttered.

Four rounds bouncing off cobblestones sent the mayor scrambling back into the office.

Tie Medley exposed his head once too often and Sheriff Poley shot him between the eyes. The Hog, along with Shorty, Jake, and Red, slipped out through a hole blown in the wall and crept into the hardware store. There, they stuffed their pockets full of cartridges and began chopping a hole in the wall, breaking into a dress shop and then into an apothecary shop. They were far enough away from the bank building then to slip out, locate their horses, and get the hell out of that locale.

“Let’s find this Reynolds place!” Shorty said. “I want Jensen.”

“Let’s go!”

Smoke came face to face with Brute Pitman at the rear of the corner of the house. The man’s face was streaked with blood and there was a tiny bullet hole in his left shoulder, put there by Martha’s pocket .32.

Smoke started pulling and cocking, each round striking Brute in the chest and belly. The big man sat down on his butt in the grass and stared at Smoke. While Smoke was punching out empty brass and reloading, Brute Pitman toppled over and died with his eyes and mouth open, taking with him and forever sealing the secret to his cache of gold.

Smoke holstered his own .44s and grabbed at Brute’s six-guns, checking the loads. He filled both of them up with six and continued his prowling.

Sally and Martha watched as he passed by a rear window, blood staining one side of his face. Then they heard his .44s roar into action, and each listened to the ugly sounds of bullets striking into and tearing flesh.

Glen Moore lay on his back near the wood shed, his chest riddled with .44 slugs.

Smoke tossed Bruce’s guns onto the back porch and stepped inside the house.

“You hurt bad?” Sally asked.

“Scratched, that’s all.” He poured a cup of coffee and carried it with him through the house, stopping by John Reynolds’s position in the foyer.

“It didn’t go as King Rex planned.” Smoke sipped his coffee. “I got a hunch he and Dagget have turned tail and run.”

“Then it’s over?”

“For now. But I think I know where the outlaws holed up before they hit us.”

The gunfire had intensified from the town proper.

“Where?”

“That big house with the huge barn just outside of town.”

“That’s Jennings Miller’s place. Yes. Come to think of it, I believe he went to visit one of his children the other day.”

“When this is over, I’ll get the sheriff and we’ll take a ride over there. Does Dagget still have kin in this town?”

John grimaced. “Unfortunately, yes. The Mansfords. A very disagreeable bunch. They live just north of town. Why do you ask?”

“Probably never be able to prove it, but I’ll bet they helped Dagget out in casing the town and telling them the best place to hide.”

“I certainly wouldn’t put it past them.”

The firing had lessened considerably from the town.

“I’ll wire the marshal’s office first thing after the wires are fixed.”

A train whistle cut the waning gunfire.

“I’ll ask them to give any reward money to the town. I reckon that bank’s gonna be pretty well tore up.”

The train whistle tooted shrilly.

John laughed.

Smoke cut his eyes. “What’s so funny, John?”

The gunfire had stopped completely; an almost eerie silence lay over the town. The train tooted its whistle several more times.

“I wouldn’t worry about the bank building, Son. Like I said, it needed a lot of work done on it anyway.”

“Bank president and owners might not see it that way, John.”

“I can assure you, Son, the major stockholder in that bank will see it my way.”

“Are you the major stockholder, John?”

“No. My father gave his shares to his favorite granddaughter when she turned twenty-one.”

“And who is that?”

“Your wife, Sally.”

Only two outlaws were hauled out of the bank building unscathed. Several more were wounded, and one of those would die in the local clinic.

Paul Rycroft and Slim Bothwell had managed to weasel out and could not be found.

Almost miraculously, no townspeople had even been seriously hurt in the wild shooting.

Rex Davidson and Dagget, so it appeared, were long gone from the town. The sheriff and his deputy went to the Mansford home and gave it a thorough search, talking with the family members at length. The family was sullen and uncooperative, but the sheriff could not charge anyone. After all, there was no law on the books against being a jackass.

The bodies of the dead were hauled off and the street swept and cleaned up in front of the ruined bank building. The townspeople began gathering around, oohing and aahing and pointing at this and that.

The sheriff had deputized two dozen extra men and sent them off to guard all roads and paths leading out of the town. People could come in, but you had damn well better be known if you wanted to get out.

The telegraph wires had been repaired—they had been deliberately cut by Davidson’s men, so the prisoners had confessed—and they were once more humming. A special train had been ordered from Manchester and Concord, and the small town was rapidly filling up with reporters and photographers.

Pictures were taken of Mayor George Mahaffery, holding his Dragoon, and the sheriff and his deputy and of the chief of police and his men. Smoke, Louis, and York tried to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible.

That ended abruptly when a small boy tugged at Smoke’s jacket.

“Yes, son?” Smoke looked down at him.

“Four men at the end of the street, Mr. Smoke,” the little boy said, his eyes wide with fear and excitement. “They said they’ll meet you and your men in the street in fifteen minutes.”

Smoke thanked him, gave him a dollar, and sent him off running. He motioned for the sheriff and for Louis and York.

“Clear the street, Sheriff. We’ve been challenged, Louis, York.” Then he briefed his friends.

“Why, I’ll just take a posse and clean them out!” Sheriff Poley said.

Smoke shook his head. “You’ll walk into an ambush if you try that, Sheriff. None of us knows where the men are holed up. Just clear the street.”

“Yeah,” York said. “A showdown ain’t agin the law where we come from.”

Since they had first met, Martha and York had been keeping close company. Martha stepped out of the crowd and walked to York. She kissed him right on the mouth, right in front of God and everybody—and she was still dressed in men’s britches!

“I’ll be waiting,” she whispered to him.

York blushed furiously and his grin couldn’t have been dislodged with an axe.

Louis and Smoke stood back, smiling at the young woman and the young ranger. Then they checked their guns, Louis saying, “One more time, friend.”

“I wish I could say it would be the last time.”

“It won’t be.” Louis spun the cylinder of first his right-hand gun, then the left-hand .44, dropping them into leather. Smoke and York did the same, all conscious of hundreds of eyes on them.

The hundreds of people had moved into stores and ducked into alleyways. Reporters were scribbling as fast as they could and the photographers were ready behind their bulky equipment.

“There they stand,” Louis said quietly, cutting his eyes up the street.

“Shorty, Red, Jake, The Hog,” Smoke verbally checked them off. He glanced up and down the wide street. It was free of people.

“You boys ready?” York asked.

“Let’s do it!” Louis replied grimly.

The citizens of the town and the visiting reporters and photographers had all read about the western-style shoot-outs. But not one among them had ever before witnessed one. The people watched as the outlaws lined up at the far end of the wide street and the lawmen lined up at the other. They began walking slowly toward each other.

“I should have killed you the first day I seen you, Jensen!” Jake called.

Smoke offered no reply.

“I ain’t got but one regret about this thing,” Jake wouldn’t give it up. “I’d have loved to see you eat a pile of horse shit!”

This time Smoke responded. “I’ll just give you some lead, Jake. See how you like that.”

“I’ll take the Hog,” York said.

“Shorty’s mine,” Louis never took his eyes off his intended target.

“Red and Jake belong to me,” Smoke tallied it up. “They’re all fast, boys. Some of us just might take some lead this go-around.”

“It’s not our time yet, Smoke,” Louis spoke quietly. “We all have many more trails to ride before we cross that dark river.”

“How do you know them things, Louis?” York asked.

Louis smiled in that strange and mysterious manner that was uniquely his. “My mother was a gypsy queen, York.”

Smoke glanced quickly at him. “Louis, you tell the biggest whackers this side of Preacher.”

The gambler laughed and so did Smoke and York. Those watching and listening did so with open mouths, not understanding the laughter.

The reporters also noted the seemingly high humor as the three men walked toward hot lead and gunsmoke.

“It’s a game to them,” a reporter murmured. “Nothing more than a game.”

“They’re savages!” another said. “All of them. The so-called marshals included. They should all be put in cages and publicly displayed.”

Martha tapped him on the shoulder. “Mister?”

The reporter turned around.

The young woman slugged him on the side of the jaw, knocking the man sprawling, on his butt, to the floor of the store.

Jordan Reynolds stood with his mouth open, staring in disbelief.

“Good girl,” John said.

A man who looked to be near a hundred years old, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, smiled at Martha. He had gotten off the train that morning, accompanied by two other old men also dressed in clothing that did not seem right for them.

Sally looked at the old men and smiled, starting toward them. The old man who had smiled at Martha shook his head minutely.

The three old mountain men stepped back into the crowd and vanished, walking out the rear of the store.

The reporter was struggling to get to his feet.

“Who was that old man, Sally?” Martha asked.

“I don’t know,” Sally lied. Then she turned to once more watch her man face what many believed he was born to face.

There was fifty feet between them when the outlaws dragged iron. The street erupted in fire and smoke and fast guns and death.

The Hog went down with three of York’s .44 slugs in his chest and belly. He struggled to rise and York ended it with a carefully aimed slug between the Hog’s piggy eyes.

Shorty managed to clear leather and that was just about all he managed to do before Louis’s guns roared and belched lead. Shorty fell forward on his face, his un-fired guns shining in the crisp fall air.

Smoke took out Red first, drawing and firing so fast the man was unable to drag his .45 out of leather. Then Smoke felt the sting of a bullet graze his left shoulder as he cocked and fired, the slug taking Jake directly in the center of his chest. Smoke kept walking and firing as Jake refused to go down. Finally, with five slugs in him, the outlaw dropped to the street, closed his eyes, and died.

“What an ugly sight!” Smoke heard a man say.

He turned to the man, blood running down his arm from the wound in his shoulder. “No uglier than when he was alive,” Smoke told him.

And the old man called Preacher chuckled and turned to his friends. “Let’s git gone, boys. It was worth the train ride just to see it!”

The reporter that Martha had busted on the jaw was leaning against another reporter, moral and physical support in his time of great stress. “I’ll sue you!” he hollered at the young woman.

Martha held up her fists. “You wanna fight instead?”

“Savage bitch!” the man yelled at her.

Lawyer John Reynolds stepped up and belted the reporter on the snoot with a hard straight right. The reporter landed on his butt, a sprawl of arms and legs, blood running down his face from his busted beak.

John smiled and said, “Damn, but that felt good!”

BANK ROBBERY ATTEMPT FOILED BY WESTERN GUNSLINGERS screamed one headline.

SAVAGES MEET SAVAGE END IN PEACEFUL NEW HAMPSHIRE TOWN howled another front-page headline.

Smoke glanced at the headlines and then ignored the rest of the stories about him. He was getting antsy, restless; he was ready to get gone, back to the High Lonesome, back to the Sugarloaf.

“Is that reporter really going to sue you, Father?” Sally asked John.

The lawyer laughed. “He says he is.”

“You want me to take care of it, John?” Smoke asked with a straight face.

“Oh, no, Son!” John quickly spoke up. “No, I think it will all work out.”

Then Smoke smiled, and John realized his son-in-law was only having fun with him. John threw back his head and laughed.

“Son, you have made me realize what a stuffed shirt I had become. And I thank you for it.”

Smoke opened his mouth and John waved him silent. “No, let me finish this. I’ve had to reassess my original opinion of you, Son. I’ve had to reevaluate many of the beliefs I thought were set in stone. Oh, I still believe very strongly in law and order. And lawyers,” he added with a smile. “But I can understand you and men like you much better now.”

York was out sparking Miss Martha, and Louis was arranging a private railroad car to transport them all back to Colorado. His way of saying thank you for his namesake.

“I’d like nothing better than to see the day when I can hang up my guns, John,” Smoke said after a sip of strong cowboy coffee. “But out where I live, that’s still many years down the road, I’m thinking.”

“I’d like to visit your ranch someday.”

“You’ll be welcome anytime, sir.”

John leaned forward. “You’re leaving soon?”

“Probably day after tomorrow. Louis says he thinks he can have the car here then. About noon.”

“And this Rex Davidson and Dagget; the others who got away?”

“We’ll meet them down the road, I’m sure. But me and Sally, we’re used to watching our backtrail. Used to keeping a gun handy. Don’t worry, John, Abigal. If they try to take us on the Sugarloaf, that’s where we’ll bury them.”

“I say,” Jordan piped up. “Do you think your town could support another attorney? I’ve been thinking about it, and I think the West is in need of more good attorneys, don’t you, Father?”

His father probably saved his son’s life when he said, “Jordan, I need you here.”

“Oh! Very well, Father. Perhaps someday.”

“When pigs fly,” John muttered.

“Beg pardon, sir?” Jordan asked.

“Nothing, Son. Nothing at all.”

They pulled out right on schedule, but to Smoke’s surprise, the town’s band turned up at the depot and were blaring away as the train pulled out.

Louis had not arranged for one private car but for two, so the ladies could have some privacy and the babies could be tended to properly and have some quiet moments to sleep.

“Really, Louis,” Sally told him. “I am perfectly capable of paying for these amenities myself.”

“Nonsense. I won’t hear of it.” He looked around to make sure that Smoke and York were not watching or listening, then reached down and tickled his namesake under his chin.

“Goochy, goochy!” the gambler said.

Louis Arthur promptly grabbed hold of the gambler’s finger and refused to let go.

They changed engines and crews many times before reaching St. Louis. There, all were tired and Louis insisted upon treating them to the finest hotel in town. A proper nanny was hired to take care of the twins, and Louis contacted the local Pinkerton agency and got several hard-looking and very capable-appearing men to guard the babies and their nanny.

Then they all went out on the town.

They spent two days in the city, the ladies shopping and the men tagging along, appearing to be quite bored with it all. It got very un-boring when York accidentally got lost in the largest and most expensive department store in town and wound up in one of the ladies’ dressing rooms…with a rather matronly lady dressed only in her drawers.

Smoke and Louis thought the Indians were attacking from all the screaming that reverberated throughout the many-storied building.

After order was restored, York commented. “Gawddamndest sight I ever did see. I thought I was in a room with a buffalo!”

The train chugged and rumbled across Missouri and into and onto the flat plains of Kansas. It had turned much colder, and snow was common now.

“I worry about taking the babies up into the high country, Smoke,” Sally expressed her concern as the train rolled on into Colorado.

“Not to worry,” Louis calmed her. “I can arrange for a special coach with a charcoal stove. Everything is going to be all right.”

But Louis knew, as did Smoke and York, that the final leg of their journey was when they would be the most vulnerable.

But their worry was needless. Smoke had wired home, telling his friends when they would arrive in Denver. When they stepped out of the private cars, he knew that not even such a hate-filled man as Rex Davidson would dare attack them now.

Monte Carson and two of his men were there, as were Johnny North and Pearlie and a half dozen others from the High Lonesome; all of them men who at one time or another in their lives had been known as gunslingers.

York was going to head south to Arizona and officially turn in his badge and draw his time, then come spring he’d drift back up toward the Sugarloaf. And toward Martha.

This was the end of the line for Louis. He had many business appointments and decisions to make, and then he would head out, probably to France.

“Oh, I’ll be back,” he assured them all. “I have to check on my namesake every now and then, you know.”

Smoke stuck out his hand and the gambler/gunfighter shook it. “Thanks, Louis.”

“Anytime, Smoke. Just anytime at all. It isn’t over, friend. So watch your back and look after Sally and the kids.”

“I figure they’ll come after me come spring, Louis.”

“So do I. See you, Smoke.”

And as he had done before, Louis Longmont turned without another word and walked out of their lives.

Christmas in the high country and it was shut-down-tight time, with snow piled up to the eaves. For the next several months, taking care of the cattle would be back-breakingly hard work for every man able to sit a saddle.

Water holes would have to be chopped out daily so the cattle could drink. Hay would have to be hauled to them so they would not starve. Line cabins would have to be checked and restocked with food so the hands could stay alive. Firewood had to be stacked high, with a lot of it stacked close to the house, for the temperature could drop to thirty below in a matter of a few hours.

This was not a country for the fainthearted or for those who did not thrive on hard brutal work. It was a hard land, and it took hard men to mold it and make it liveable.

It was a brutal time for the men and women in the high country, but it was also a peaceful time for them. It was a time when, after a day’s back-breaking and exhausting work, a man could come home to a warm fire and a table laden with hot food. And after supper, a man and woman could sit snug in their home while the wind howled and sang outside, talking of spring while their kids did homework, read or, as in Smoke and Sally’s case, laid on the floor, on a bearskin rug in front of the fire, playing with toys their father had carved and shaped and fitted and pegged together with his own strong hands. They could play with dolls their mother had patiently sewn during the long, cold, seemingly endless days of winter.

But as is foretold in the Bible, there is a time for everything, and along about the middle of March, the icy fingers of winter began to loosen their chilly grip on the high country of Colorado.

Smoke and Sally awakened to the steady drip-drop of water.

Martha, who had spent the winter with them and had been a godsend in helping take care of the babies, stuck her head inside their bedroom, her eyes round with wonder.

“Raining?” she asked.

Smoke grinned at her. He and Sally had both tossed off the heavy comforter some time during the night, when the temperature began its steady climb upward.

“Chinooks, Martha,” he told her. “Sometimes it means spring is just around the corner. But as often as not, it’s a false spring.”

“I’ll start breakfast,” she said.

Smoke pulled on his clothes and belted his guns around him. He stepped outside and smiled at the warm winds. Oh, it was still mighty cool, the temperature in the forties, but it beat the devil out of temperatures forty below.

“Tell Sally I’ll milk the cows, Martha. Breakfast ought to be ready when I’m—”

His eyes found the horse standing with head down near the barn. And he knew that horse. It belonged to York.

And York was lying in the muddy snow beside the animal.

Smoke jerked out his .44 and triggered two fast shots into the air. The bunkhouse emptied in fifteen seconds, with cowboys in various stages of undress, mostly in their longhandles, boots, and hats—with guns in their hands.

Sally jerked the front door open. “It’s York, and I think he’s hard hit…”

“Shot in the chest, boss!” a cowboy yelled. “He’s bad, too!”

“You, Johnny!” Smoke yelled to a hand. “Get dressed and get Dr. Spalding out here. We can’t risk moving York over these bumpy roads.” The cowboy darted back inside the bunkhouse. Smoke turned to Sally. “Get some water on to boil and gather up some clean white cloths for bandages.” He ran over to where York was sprawled.

Pearlie had placed a jacket under York’s head. He met Smoke’s eyes. “It don’t look good. The only chance he’s got is if it missed the lung.”

“Get him into the house, boys.”

As they moved him as gently as possible, York opened his eyes and looked at Smoke. “Dagget and Davidson and ’bout a dozen others, Smoke. They’re here. Ambushed me ’bout fifteen miles down the way. Down near where them beaver got that big dam.”

Then he passed out.

Johnny was just swinging into the saddle. “Johnny! Tell the sheriff to get a posse together. Meet me at Little Crick.”

The cowboy left, foggy headed.

York was moved into the house, into the new room that had been added while Smoke and Sally were gone east.

Smoke turned to Pearlie. “This weather will probably hold for several days at least. The cattle can make it now. Leave the hands at the lineshacks. You’ll come with me. Everybody else stays here, close to the house. And I mean nothing pulls them away. Pass the word.”

Smoke walked back into the house and looked in on York. Sally and Martha had pulled off his boots, loosened his belt, and stripped his bloody shirt from him. They had cut off the upper part of his longhandles, exposing the ugly savage wound in his chest.

Sally met her husband’s eyes. “It’s bad, Smoke, but not as bad as I first thought. The bullet went all the way through. There is no evidence of a lung being nicked; no pink froth. And his breathing is strong and so is his heart.”

Smoke nodded, grabbing up a piece of bread and wrapping it around several thick slices of salt meat he picked from the skillet. “I’ll get in gear and then Pearlie and me will pull out; join the posse at Little Crick. All the hands have been ordered to stay right here. It would take an army to bust through them.”

Sally rose and kissed his lips. “I’ll fix you a packet of food.”

Smoke roped and saddled a tough mountain horse, a bigger-than-usual Appaloosa, sired by his old Appaloosa, Seven. He lashed down his bedroll behind the saddle and stuffed his saddlebags full of ammo and food and a couple of pairs of clean socks. He swung into the saddle just as Pearlie was swinging into his saddle. Smoke rode over to the front door of the house, where Sally was waiting.

Her eyes were dark with fury. “Finish it, Smoke,” she said.

He nodded and swung his horse’s head—the horse was named Horse. He waited for Pearlie and the two of them rode slowly down the valley, out of the high country and down toward Little Crick.

By eight o’clock that morning, Smoke and Pearlie had both shucked off their heavy coats and tied them behind their saddles, riding with only light jackets to protect them from the still-cool winds.

They had met Dr. Spalding on the road and told him what they knew about York’s wound. The doctor had nodded his head and driven on.

An hour later they were at the beaver dam on Little Crick. Sheriff Monte Carson was waiting with the posse. Smoke swung down from the saddle and walked to where the sheriff was pointing.

“Easy trackin’, Smoke. Two men have already gone on ahead. I told them not to get more’un a couple miles ahead of us.”

“That’s good advice, Monte. These are bad ones. How many you figure?”

“Ground’s pretty chewed up, but I’d figure at least a dozen; maybe fifteen of them.”

Smoke looked at the men of the posse. He knew them all and was friends with them all. There was Johnny North, at one time one of the most feared and respected of all gunslingers. There was the minister, a man of God but a crack shot with a rifle. Better hit the ground if he ever pulled out a six-shooter, for he couldn’t hit the side of a mountain with a short gun. The editor of the paper was there, along with the town’s lawyer, both of them heavily armed. There were ranchers and farmers and shopkeepers, and while not all were born men of the West, they had blended in and were solid western men.

Which meant that if you messed with them, they would shoot your butt off.

Smoke shared a few words with all of the men of the posse, making sure they all had ample food and bedrolls and plenty of ammo. It was a needless effort, for all had arrived fully prepared.

Then Smoke briefed them all about the nature of the men they were going to track.

When he had finished, all the men wore looks of pure disgust on their faces. Beaconfield and Garrett, both big ranchers in the area, had quietly noosed ropes while Smoke was talking.

Monte noticed, of course, but said nothing. This was the rough-edged west, where horse thieves were still hanged on the spot, and there was a reason for that: Leave a man without a horse in this country, and that might mean the thief had condemned that man to death.

Tit for tat.

“Judge Proctor out of town?” Smoke asked.

“Gone to a big conference down in Denver,” Monte told him.

Beaconfield and Garrett finished noosing the ropes and secured them behind their saddles. They were not uncaring men. No one had ever been turned away from their doors hungry or without proper clothing. Many times, these same men had given a riderless puncher a horse, telling him to pay whenever he could; if he couldn’t, that was all right, too.

But western men simply could not abide men like Davidson or Dagget or them that chose to ride with them. The men of the posse lived in a hard land that demanded practicality, short conversations, and swift justice, oftentimes as not, at the point of a gun.

It would change as the years rolled on. But a lot of people would wonder if the change had been for the better.

A lot of people would be wondering the same thing a hundred hears later.

Smoke swung into the saddle. “Let’s go stomp on some snakes.”

The posse caught up with the men who had ranged out front, tracking the outlaws.

“I can’t figure them, Sheriff,” one of the scouts said. “It’s like they don’t know they’re headin’ into a box canyon.”

“Maybe they don’t,” Pearlie suggested.

One of the outriders shook his head. “If they keep on the way they’re goin’, we’re gonna have ’em hemmed in proper in about an hour.”

Garrett walked his horse on ahead. “Let’s do it, boys. It’s a right nice day for a hangin’.”

The posse cautiously made their way. In half an hour, they knew that King Rex and Dagget were trapped inside Puma Canyon. They was just absolutely no other way out.

“Two men on foot,” Monte ordered. “Rifles. And take it slow and easy up the canyon. Don’t move until you’ve checked all around you and above you. We might have them trapped, but this is one hell of a good place for an ambush. You—”

“Hellooo, the posse!” the call came echoing down the long, narrow canyon. It was clearly audible, so Davidson and his men were not that far away.

Monte waved the two men back and shouted, “We hear you. Give yourselves up. You haven’t got a chance.”

“Oh, I think not, Sheriff. I think it’s going to be a very interesting confrontation.”

“Rex Davidson,” Smoke said. “I will never forget that voice.”

Monte turned to one of his deputies. “Harry, you and Bob ride down yonder about half a mile. There’s a way up to the skyline. You’ll be able to shoot right down on top of them. Take off.”

“This is tricky country,” Beaconfield said. “Man can get hisself into a box here ’fore he knows. Took me several years to learn this country and damned if I still don’t end up in a blind canyon ever now and then.”

They all knew what he meant, for they all had, at one time or the other, done the same them.

“Hellooo, the posse!” the call came again.

“We hear you! What do you want?” Monte yelled, his voice bouncing around the steep canyon walls.

“We seem to have boxed ourselves in. Perhaps we could behave as gentlemen and negotiate some sort of settlement. What do you say about that?”

“Bastard’s crazy!” Monte said.

“You noticed,” Smoke replied.

Raising his voice, Monte called, “Toss your guns to the ground and ride on out. One hand on the reins, the other hand in the air.”

“That offer is totally unacceptable!”

“Then you’re going to get lead or a rope. Take your choice!”

“Come on and get us then!” Dagget yelled, laying down the challenge.

“We got three choices,” Garrett said, a grimness to his voice. “We can starve them out; but that’d take days. We could try to set this place on fire and burn them out; but I don’t want no harm to come to their horses. Or we can go in and dig them out.”

Smoke dismounted and led Horse back to a safe pocket at the mouth of the canyon. He stuffed his pockets with .44s and pulled his rifle from the boot.

The others followed suit, taking their horses out of the line of fire and any possible ricocheting bullet. Monte waved the men to his side.

“The only way any of us is gonna take lead this day is if we’re stupid or downright unlucky. What we’re gonna do is wait until Bob and Harry get into position and start layin’ down some lead. Then we can start movin’ in. So lets have us a smoke and a drink of water and relax. Relaxin’ is something them ol’ boys in that box canyon ain’t liable to be doin’.”

The men squatted down and rolled and licked and shaped and lit. Beaconfield brought out a coffee pot, and Smoke made a small circle of rocks and started a hat-sized fire. The men waited for the coffee to boil.

With a smile on his lips, Smoke walked to the curve of the canyon and shouted, “We’re gonna have us some coffee and food, Davidson. We’ll be thinking about you boys all hunkered up there in the rocks doing without.”

A rifle slug whined wickedly off the rock wall, tearing through the air to thud against the ground.

“This is the Jester, King Rex, Your Majesty!” Smoke shouted. “How about just you and me, your royal pain in the ass?”

“Swine!” Davidson screamed. “You traitor! You turned your back to me after all I’d done for you. I made you welcome in my town and you turned on me like a rattlesnake.”

He is insane, Smoke thought. But crazy like that much-talked-about fox.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Davidson. How about it? You and me in a face-off?”

“You trust that crud, Smoke?” Johnny North asked, edging close to Smoke.

“No, I just want to see what he’ll do.”

They all got that answer quickly. All the hemmed-in outlaws began pumping lead in Smoke’s direction. But all they managed to do was waste a lot of lead and powder and hit a lot of air.

“So much for that,” Smoke said, after the hard gunfire had ceased.

He had no sooner gotten the words out of his mouth when Harry and Bob opened up from the west side of the canyon wall. Several screams and howls of pain told the posse members the marksmanship of the men on the rim was true.

“That got their attention,” Monte said with a grim smile.

They heard the clatter of a falling rifle and knew that at least one of the outlaws had been hard hit and probably killed.

“You have no honor, Jester!” Davidson screamed. “You’re a foul person. You’re trash, Jester.”

“And you’re a coward, Davidson!” Smoke called.

“How dare you call me a coward!”

“You hide behind the guns of a child rapist. You’re afraid to fight your own battles.”

“You talkin’ about Dagget?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah.”

Johnny grimaced and spat on the ground, as if trying to clear his mouth of a bad taste. “Them kind of people is pure filth. I want him, Smoke.”

“He’s all mine, Johnny. Personal reasons.”

“You got him.”

“Dagget!” Smoke yelled. “Do you have any bigger bolas than your cowardly boss?”

There was a long moment of silence. Dagget called out, “Name your poison, Jensen!”

“Face me, Dagget. One on one. I don’t think you’ve got the guts to do it.”

Another moment of silence. “How do we work it out, Jensen?”

“You call it, Dagget.”

Another period of silence. Longer than the others. Smoke felt that Dagget was talking with Davidson and he soon found that his guess was correct.

“I reckon you boys got ropes already noosed and knotted for us, right, Jensen?” another voice called.

“I reckon.”

“Who’s that?” Monte asked.

“I think it’s Paul Rycroft.”

“I ain’t lookin’ to get hung!” Rycroft yelled.

Smoke said nothing.

“Jensen? Slim Bothwell here. Your snipers got us pegged out and pinned down. Cain’t none of us move more’un two/three inches either way without gettin’ drilled. It ain’t no fittin’ way for a man to go out. I got me an idea. You interested?”

“Keep talking, Slim.”

“I step out down to the canyon floor. One of your men steps out. One of us, one of you. We do that until we’re all facin’ each other. Anybody tries anything funny, your men on the ridge can drop them already out. And since I’ll be the first one out…well, you get the pitcher, don’t you?”

Smoke looked back at the posse members. “They’re asking for a showdown. But a lot of you men aren’t gunslicks. I can’t ask you to put your life on the line.”

“A lot of them ol’ boys in there ain’t gunslicks, neither,” Beaconfield said. “They’re just trash. Let’s go for it.”

Every member of the posse concurred without hesitation. The minister, Ralph Morrow, was the second to agree.

“All right, Bothwell. You and Rycroft step out with me and Pearlie.”

“That’s a deal. Let’s do ’er.”

Each taking a deep breath, Smoke and Pearlie stepped out to face the two outlaws. Several hundred feet separated the men. The others on both sides quickly followed, the outlaws fully aware that if just one of them screwed up, the riflemen on the skyline of the canyon would take a terrible toll.

Davidson and Dagget were the last two down from the rocks. Davidson was giggling as he minced down to the canyon floor.

And Davidson and Dagget positioned themselves so they both were facing Smoke.

“And now we find out something I have always known,” Davidson called to Smoke.

“What’s that, stupid?” Smoke deliberately needled the man.

“Who’s the better man, of course!” Davidson called.

“Hell, Davidson. I’ve known that since the first time I laid eyes on you. You couldn’t shine my boots.”

Davidson flushed and waved his hand. “Forward, troops!” he shouted. “Advance and wipe out the mongrels!”

“Loony as a monkey!” Garrett muttered.

“But dangerous as a rattlesnake.” Smoke advised. “Let’s go, boys.”

The lines of men began to walk slowly toward each other, their boots making their progress in the muddy, snowy canyon floor.

The men behind their rifles on the canyon skyline kept the muzzles of their guns trained on the outlaws.

No one called out any signals. No one spoke a word. All knew that when they were about sixty feet apart, it was time to open the dance. Rycroft’s hands jerked at the pistol butts and Beaconfield drilled him dead center just as Bothwell grabbed for his guns. Minister Morrow lifted the muzzle of his Henry and shot the outlaw through the belly, levered in another round, and finished the job.

The canyon floor roared and boomed and filled with gunsmoke as the two sides hammered at each other.

Smoke pulled both .44s, his speed enabling him to get off the first and accurate shots.

One slug turned Dagget sideways and the other slug hit Davidson in the hip, striking the big bone and knocking the man to the ground.

Smoke felt the lash of a bullet impact with his left leg. He steadied himself and continued letting the hot lead fly. He saw Dagget go down just as Davidson leveled his six-gun and fired. The bullet clipped Smoke’s right arm, stinging and drawing the blood. Smoke leveled his left-hand .44 and shot Davidson in the head, the bullet striking him just about his right eye.

Dagget was down on his knees, still fighting. Smoke walked toward the man, cocking and firing. He was close enough to see the slugs pop dirt from the man’s shirt and jacket as they struck.

Dagget suddenly rose up to one knee and his fingers loosened their hold on his guns. He fell forward on his face just as Smoke slumped against a huge boulder, his left leg suddenly aching, unable to hold his weight.

Smoke punched out empties and reloaded as the firing wound down. He watched as Pearlie emptied both Colts into the chests of two men; Minister Morrow knocked yet another outlaw to the ground with fire and lead from his Henry.

And then the canyon floor fell silent.

Somewhere a man coughed and spat. Another man groaned in deep pain. Yet another man tried to get up from the line of fallen outlaws. He tried then gave it up, falling back into the boot-churned mud.

The outlaw line lay bloody and still.

“My wife told me to finish it this morning,” Smoke said, his voice seeming unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness.

“Anything my wife tells me to do, I do it,” Garrett spoke.

“Looks like we done it,” Johnny summed it up.

Beaconfield and Garrett called in some of their hands and the outlaws were buried in a mass grave. Reverend Ralph Morrow spoke a few words over the gravesite.

Damn few words.

Smoke tied off the wound in his leg and the men swung into the saddles. This part of Colorado was peaceful again, for a time.

The men turned their horses and headed for home. No one looked back at the now-quiet-but-once-roaring-and-bloody canyon floor. No one would return to mark the massive grave. The men of the posse had left the outlaws’ guns on top of the mound of fresh earth.

Marker enough.

York would make it, but it would be a long, slow healing time. But as Dr. Spalding pointed out, Martha would make a fine nurse.

York had been ambushed in the late afternoon, but he’d somehow managed to stay in the saddle and finally made the ranch. He had crawled into some hay by the barn and that had probably saved his life.

“We’ll call our ranch the Circle BM,” York told her.

Martha thought about that. “No,” she said with a smile. “Let’s call it the Circle YM. It…sounds a little bit better.”

Spring came to the High Lonesome, and with the coming of the renewal of the cycle, a peaceful warm breeze blew across the meadows and the canyons and the homes of those who chose to brave the high country, to carve out their destiny, working the land, moving the cattle, raising their families, and trying their best to live their lives as decently and as kindly as the circumstances would permit them.

Martha would be hired as the new schoolmarm, and in the summer, she and York would wed. Her teaching would be interrupted every now and then, for they would have six children.

Six to add to Smoke and Sally’s five.

Five?

Yes, but that’s another story…along the trail of the last mountain man.

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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN: 978-0-7860-2641-8

*The Last Mountain Man

*Return of the Mountain Man

*The Last Mountain Man

*Return of the Mountain Man

Table of Contents

TRAIL OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN

Book One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3