Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (16 page)

“What th’ hell?” the snaggle-toothed outlaw blurted.

“Throw it down,” Monte commanded.

“Hell no!” the bandit shouted defiantly.

Monte’s horse shied in the instant when he fired. His bullet went wide and low, to gouge deeply into the road agent’s hip. With a yelp of pain, the hoodlum dropped to his good knee. His Colt bucked and snorted fire. The slug cut a hot line along Monte’s ribcage. Then his own Peacemaker barked and the highwayman flipped over backward. Monte and Hank reined in, checked the dead men and turned back to the startled pilgrims.

“Praise the Lord!” the blonde woman declared, hands clasped and upraised.

“You saved us, mister. We’re much obliged.”

Monte had his dander aroused. “No thanks to the both of you. Folks should know better not to be out here unarmed, or without an escort.”

Icily, the woman answered him in self-righteousness. “We do not believe in guns, mister. They’re the work of the devil.”

“Maudy’s right, mister. We don’t hold by guns and violent ways.” He cut his eyes to inspect the aftermath, then added ruefully, “At least, she don’t. After what happened, I’ve sorta changed my mind.”

“Richard!”
Maude bleated.

He rounded on her. “I mean it, Maudy. They might have done who knows what to you and the girls, after they robbed us, that is. You saw what a man, properly armed, could do to end their evil ways.”

Still unswayed, Maude answered testily. “Such matters are best left in the hands of God and the law.”

His own ire aroused, Richard narrowed his eyes and spoke hotly. “And just how long do you expect it might have taken for God to take a hand? Or the law to get here? We’d all be dead and turned back to dust before we could count on any help from them quarters. An’ I don’t mean to blaspheme by that. God’s got other things to look after, an’ the nearest law must be a hunnerd miles away.”

Monte Carson cleared his throat in embarrassment. “As it happens, the law is right here. Monte Carson, sheriff of Price County, Colorado. This is my chief deputy.”

Richard looked startled. “We still in Colorado?”

“Nope. This is Wyoming, right enough. We’re looking for a man.”

“An outlaw?” Richard prompted.

Monte shook his head. “No. A friend. Tall man, lean, with broad shoulders, clean shaven. Far-off lookin’ hazel eyes, red-brown hair.” He described Smoke Jensen.

Richard cut his eyes to his wife. They both shook their heads. “We’ve not seen anyone like that,” the man answered.

“Don’t reckon you will, then. He should be ahead of us a ways. Can we give you a hand with that wheel?”

“I’d be right grateful. Got a spare lashed to the underside.”

Within twenty minutes the new wheel had been fixed in place. Monte wiped axle grease off his hands and turned to his horse. Richard interrupted him with effusive thanks and a question. “What’s to be done with those two?”

“No doubt they have a price on their heads. If you can put up with the stink, take them along and turn them in at the next town.”

“Not on your life,” husband and wife agreed.

Monte mounted, laughing, and gave a friendly wave. Then he and Hank rode off in search of Smoke Jensen.

Seen from a long, ragged bluff, the town of Dubois looked even more unimpressive than the description given of it by Victor Spectre. Three days of hard riding, from first light to last, had brought them to this point. The gang sat their mounts near the rim that dropped off sharply to a talus slope three hundred feet below. A beatific smile lighted the face of Victor Spectre. He made a sweeping gesture with a black-gloved hand.

“There it is, gentlemen. We have arrived. We will divide into four groups. Three of them to be led by myself and my associates, the fourth by Augustus Jaeger. We will then approach the town from all sides and take it by storm. The key is to minimize the amount of violence it requires to assert our control. Paramount is the disarming of the populace.”

Farlee Huntoon looked blankly at Dorcus Carpenter. “What th’ hell he say?”

Dorcus translated. “He says first we take away all their guns.”

Spectre continued as though the interruption had never occurred. “Second is to make certain that only a selected few escape to carry word of conditions in Dubois. I would suggest no more than two or three, and separately. Lastly, is to secure all means of communication to the outside world. After that, you are at liberty to despoil the community and its citizens to your hearts’ content. Mind you, that is to be in moderation, we do not want the town burned down around our feet.”

Several guffaws answered this. Then, Fin Brock chortled, “Rustlin’ petticoats never started no fires, Mr. Spectre. I reckon to keep my ‘despoiling’ to the ladies of Dubois, an’ that’s a fact.”

Spectre gave him a cold smile. “Fine, Mr. Brock. One final admonition. You are not all to celebrate at the same time. An endless orgy is not in my plans. You must all get proper rest and sleep. We also need men on the alert to keep watch. Augustus Jaeger and Reese Judson will be in charge of a system of lookouts. Because, when he gets word, Smoke Jensen will come. And when he does, it will be as though all the Furies rode with him. Enough for now. Let us divide and prepare to conquer.”

“Jeez, he talks like one of them play-actors,” Farlee complained to his constant companion, Dorcus.

Carpenter nodded agreement. “I’d be a mite bit more comfortable with plain speakin’, myself. Best if we be with the bunch comin’ from this side. Less ridin’ that way.”

Farlee Huntoon laughed at that, a sort of gulping, slobbering sound. “I gotcha there, pardner.”

In ten minutes it had been accomplished. Their spirits high, the gang of ruffians and deadly rabble set off to capture a city.

Irving Spaun had opened his bank in Dubois the year before a horde of outlaws had descended upon the town. Two months after their arrival, Smoke Jensen came to Dubois. After a lot of bloody fighting, the outlaws, at least those left alive, fled. Irving had proudly aided in their expulsion. He still prided himself at being good with a shotgun.

Even though he had reached the age of 55 and had a pot belly, he still got out and hunted prairie chickens, doves, and Canada geese. Many a winter afternoon, after the bank had closed, he would arrive at home with a pair of plump rabbits. It had been two years now since anyone had tried to rob the bank. On that occasion, the unlucky bandit had been blasted into eternity by Irving’s trusty Parker. At the bank he loaded 00 buckshot. On this bright, sunny day, as Irving stepped outside to lock the door for the noontime recess, he felt confident that all was, and would remain, well with his world. Ten minutes later, he discovered how sadly wrong he had been.

Seated at his usual table at Molly Vincent’s Home Kettle, he awaited a savory plate of corned beef and cabbage, with potatoes, onions, and carrots. Suddenly, the double front doors flew open with enough force to shatter the etched-edged glass in one panel. Three men stood in the opening and menaced everyone inside with huge six-guns in gloved fists.

“Nobody make a sound,” the one in charge commanded. “Jist sit still and don’t make trouble. My friends here are going to come around and relieve all you gents of any weapons you may have. Then, I’m gonna name some people I want to stand up and come with us.”

“You can’t get away with this,” the fat, male cook and owner, Mollson, who was called Molly by everyone, blurted.

An amused, sneering smile appeared on the leader’s face. “I don’t see anything around here that could get in our way. Now, don’t even twitch an eyelid. Go clean ’em out, boys.”

Quickly the outlaws complied. They came up with five cartridge belt and holster rigs, two pocket pistols, and a derringer—owned by Vera Pritchard, who operated Miss Pritchard’s Residence for Refined Young Ladies, the local sporting house. Six other men, who had been taking their noon meal, including Irving Spaun, had been unarmed. Irving thought longingly of his shotgun, at rest beside his desk in the bank.

Molly Mollson continued to protest. “There ain’t enough money in this place to make it worth robbing. The risk is too big.”

Eyes wide and rolling, the leader informed all in general, “Oh, we ain’t here only to rob you. We’ve decided to settle down a while. Sort of become your neighbors.”

“This is preposterous,” Hiram Firks, who had bought out the general mercantile, blustered. “Why, the army would come, gather you all up and hang you.”

Another sneer. “Not if we lived right in among you, in your houses.”

“You can’t do that, it’s against the law.”

That brought a belly-laugh from the trio. “So’s robbin’ you of ever’thing you’ve got. An’ that’s exactly what we aim to do. Right after we kill Smoke Jensen.”

“Who?” Molly bluffed. “Never heard of anyone by that name.”

A runty thug with squinty eyes, set too close together, pointed a crooked finger at the storekeeper. “Then you cain’t read an’ yer ears is stuffed full of wax. Ain’t anybody don’t know Smoke Jensen.”

“That’s enough, Farlee. Though he’s right. Jensen’s supposed to be the big hero around here, saved your town, ain’t that right?”

Farlee Huntoon nodded idiotically. “Yeah, ain’t it?”

Irving Spaun sighed resignedly. “Yes, that’s entirely correct. And may I add that if he were here, you sorry trash would be running for your lives or on your way to the cemetery. Now kindly leave us to our meal.”

“Sorry, can’t do that,” the leader contradicted. “I want the following folks to stand up. The banker, the saddle-maker, the general store owner, the lady that runs that fancy whooer house, the feed and grain store owner, the harberdasher—did I forget anybody? Oh, yeah, the saw-bones whose shingle is hanging out over the ladies’ wear shop, an’ the lawyer.”

“This is outrageous,” Reginald Barclay, the only attorney in private practice in Dubois, objected. “What do you intend doing with us?”

Cold gray eyes pinned Barclay to the wall. “Killing you if you don’t do as we say.”

From outside came an irregular spatter of gunfire. It made the fact abundantly clear, even to dull-witted Huntoon, that the take-over did not go as peacefully elsewhere.

Hand working frantically to stuff fresh shells into the open breech of his Greener double-barrel, Percy Latimer, the Dubois barber, kept his eyes fixed on the two hard cases sprawled in the street. Terrible damage had been done by the loads of double-aught buckshot he had fired into their midsections. Large, thick pools of blood had formed around them while they lay gaping at the sky with unseeing eyes. From across the street, two of the outlaws’ companions continued to trash the windows of Percy’s tonsorial parlor.

Fragments of glass, painted in a red-white-and-green diamond pattern, lay on the floor all around Percy. It would cost a pretty penny to replace that, he considered. He seated the final cartridge, eased shut the breech and checked the release lever to make certain it had caught properly. A figure moved behind a water barrel. Percy cocked the Greener. Exposing only part of his head and one shoulder, Percy swung up the shotgun and squeezed off a round.

A shriek came from one man, who took a pair of pellets in his right arm. “Damn it, Jake, he got my gun arm.”

“Shoot left-handed,” came the reply from the recessed doorway to a saloon.

“I can’t hit a blessed thing that way.”

“But you can keep that bastard’s head down while I rush him.”

“Oh…I never thought of tha—”

“You never thought no-how, Louie. Now, git ready.”

Louie sent rounds flying wildly into the barber shop. The huge, bevel-edged mirror turned into a thousand slivers of quicksilver. Percy’s favorite shaving mug disintegrated in a shower of crockery. Percy winced and cursed under his breath, then rose up swiftly and caught sight of a shadowy figure. Bent low, the hard case ran along the front of the saloon. Percy brought the Greener into line and fired another load.

Buckshot from the ten gauge took out the bandit and a large portion of a window behind him. The glass bowed inward, then erupted in a wild shower. Jake went ass-over-teakettle into the Thirsty Man Saloon, slammed by ten pellets of burning lead. Percy pushed the catch and opened the breechloader. Spent brass casings popped up and he pulled them free. Humming to himself, he replaced them with fresh ones.

Percy swung the shotgun into line again and saw a shower of sparks spray from the long barrels of the goose gun. A fraction of a second later, intense, white pain exploded in his skull and his head snapped backward. The Greener clattered uselessly to the boardwalk outside.

Glee colored the words Louie shouted. “I got him, Jake. I sure’s hell got him. Jake? Where are you, Jake?”

Bert, the bartender, and six customers in the Yellow Gulch Saloon found themselves confronted by eight armed men. Fortunately, depending on how one looked at it, three of the customers had reputations for being good with their guns. In an instant, even before any demand for money could be made, the air filled with lead. Bullets flew from both sides. Even with their disadvantage of first having to draw, the customers put slugs into a pair of outlaws and forced the others to retreat.

Hands gripped tightly on the forestock of a short-barreled ten-gauge Wells Fargo shotgun, Bert called encouragement to his assistants. “Drinks on the house to anyone who kills one of them devils.”

“For how many and how long?” one of the young gunfighters inquired.

“A whole day. From opening to closing time. An’ for the one who gets the job done.”

“How about his friends?”

Bert thought a moment, during which a shower of bullets cracked through the batwings. “Yeah, an’ them too.”

Their doom came home to them a moment later when a voice called from outside. “Come out with your hands high, or we’ll throw in a stick of dynamite.”

“Dynamite? Stick-up men don’t carry dynamite,” another of the defenders observed. “Where could they have gotten that?”

“I don’t think I want to stick around and find out,” the younger one declared.

“If we go out there, we’re dead men, you know that,” Bert reminded them. “You boys killed two of their partners.”

“Last chance. Come out or die there.”

An older man, a rancher, gave that some thought. “I’d rather die here, fightin’ like a man, rather than go out there and be shot down like a dog.”

Bert slammed the shotgun to his shoulder as he saw a dark figure rushing at the swinging doors. He fired in an eyeblink. The outlaw flew back into a tie-rail and spun a flip over it. Something sputtering a stream of sparks dropped between his legs.

“Get down!” Bert shouted.

A moment later, the front of the saloon blew in on top of them. Shock and sound waves bulged the walls on the sides and the windows blew out, sashes and all, before the glass could break. Bert felt himself lifted off his feet, his boots still rooted to the floor, and hurled against the back-bar. His ten-gauge spun off into the cloud of debris that rose from the plaster walls and sawdust-covered floor. His last conscious thought was: “My God, I’m dead.”

All of the others suffered similar experiences. They and Bert found out after the furor ended that they had not expired in the blast. Hard hands dragged them clear of the wreckage and roughly shoved them into the street. Gus Jaeger stood in the center of the block, legs wide-spread, arms folded over his chest.

“Bring them here,” he commanded. “Put them on their knees.” When they had the seven men positioned as Jaeger wanted, the outlaw leader glowered down at the helpless bartender and his customers. In the prolonged silence, the youngest gunhawk began to whimper.

“So you killed three of my men,” Jaeger charged them. “Which ones of you did it?” When only their silence answered them, it irritated Gus mightily. He drew his Colt and put the muzzle an inch from the back of the head of a bar fly. Slowly he cocked the weapon.

“Tell me. Who did the shooting?”

Again they all remained silent. Gus Jaeger squeezed the trigger and blew the face of the town drunk all over the street. Still, he received no reply. He shot another of the customers. Then another. Suddenly bored and disgusted, he turned to his underlings.

“Give me a hand, boys. “We’ll just kill them all.”

Four more shots soon echoed off the walls of the standing buildings.

Within half an hour, a totally unsatisfactory time for Victor Spectre, all resistance had been crushed. Spectre rode in splendor to the central intersection of the community. There a windmill and storage tank provided water for the entire town. A bandstand stood there, also. Spectre dismounted before it and climbed the steep flight of steps. He faced the frightened people, gathered there and took the report from Gus Jaeger.

“All who resisted us have been killed. The rest are here. We lost seven men killed, nine wounded. Most of the injured will be up and around by tomorrow.”

“Too many,” Spectre stated curtly. “This was supposed to be quiet and easy.”

“I’d say these folks were not aware of that,” Ralph Tinsdale remarked as he joined them.

Victor Spectre shot him a hard, hot stare. “You are not funny, Ralph. Where do you suppose we will find men to replace those lost?”

Tinsdale frowned. “Smoke Jensen is only one man, Victor.”