Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) (22 page)

“If I believed that, you could also sell me the Washington Monument. Release her now and we can talk about my surrender.”

“No, Smoke,” Sally blurted.

“She is right. The answer is no. Whether you cannot count, or you are arrogant, I made up my mind. I decided that she dies at eight o’clock this morning. Now that you are here, the situation has changed again. That gives you…” Spectre fished his watch from a vest pocket while his henchman held Sally. “An hour and forty minutes. You have that time to pull back your men and give up to me, or she dies as scheduled.”

Smoke Jensen led the way out of Dubois. To Monte’s urgent questions, Smoke said only to wait and see. Smoke met first with the Shoshoni and Arapaho leaders. Running Snake listened to Smoke with interest, made a couple of suggestions and then asked how Smoke expected to make it work.

“It all depends on getting Zeke and Ezra into position to cover the hotel. From there on, we’ll have to play it by their lead. All you need worry about is to be ready when I get Sally away from Spectre.”

At ten minutes prior to the appointed time, Smoke Jensen walked Thunder down the wide main street of Dubois. An eerie silence held over the town. Residents looked away as Smoke rode by, ashamed in their helplessness. That would change, he reflected, if all went the way he intended.

Smoke had instructed Ike to have the men take all surplus arms and ammunition and provide them to the populace as the hands fought their way through the residences of Dubois. The citizens had fought to recover their homes once before, he had little doubt they had changed in only a few years. This time they had the added impetus of having the outlaws quartered among them. No one would like that sort of thing, Smoke reasoned.

And they would be given an opportunity to even the score. When he reached a block’s distance, Smoke saw Sally once again on the balcony. This time two hard cases held her arms, well away from her body or the reach of a well-aimed foot. Smoke saw that two of those responsible for this situation had chosen to gather on the covered porch of the saloon, before the double bat-wing doors. No doubt they had come to gloat and claim his head, he surmised. As promised, Smoke appeared to be unarmed, his holsters empty. Victor Spectre stepped forward as Smoke Jensen reached the corner of the intersection.

“There has been another change of plans, I regret to say,” Spectre declared, a nasty smile on his face. “We thought it to be too delicious an irony to overlook. This bright morning, you are going to get to witness your wife being shot to death. Then, you shall be killed with the same weapon. Only slowly, with each of us placing bullets at likely places. Your ankles, wrists, knees, elbows, hips, shoulder joints, your abdomen, the right side of your chest, then the left, and last, your head. By then, several days will have passed, during which we shall enjoy ourselves enormously. You recall my associate, I am sure. Ralph Tinsdale. Unfortunately, you shot Olin Buckner. He is looking on from his sickbed in the hotel above. We are three men whom you have terribly wronged. And, for that wronging, you must now pay.”

Smoke Jensen tensed as he edged even closer. Through tight, thinned lips he made his response to Spectre. “Get on with it, you windbag son of a bitch.”

According to his plan, Smoke had drawn near enough to the balcony for Sally to easily jump to the rump of Thunder. Smoke cut his eyes to those of his wife in a meaningful glance a moment before two meaty smacks sounded in the strained silence of the intersection. Instantly, Sally jerked free of her suddenly lessened restraint and darted toward the rail as the reports of two distant Sharps buffalo rifles rippled through the heated air. The two outlaws fell dead on the balcony floor. In a blur, then, she vaulted the railing and dropped to the skirt of the saddle on Thunder’s back.

“Stop them!” Victor Spectre shouted, though not before Sally Jensen yanked her .38 Colt Lightning free from the rear waistband of her husband and fired on him.

Victor Spectre and Ralph Tinsdale sprawled in an undignified manner on the worn boards of the porch. By then, Smoke had freed the .45 Colt, which had also been concealed at the small of his back. He fired in a blur of speed. His first slug cut the hat from the head of an astounded Victor Spectre. Every thug present went for his gun. Hot lead began to crack and snap close to the two Jensens. Sally held onto Smoke with one hand and gamely discharged two rounds that quickly wrote an end to the checkered career of Fin Brock. Then the Arapaho and Shoshoni warriors whooped and hollered to create a diversion that allowed Smoke Jensen to take advantage of an opening in the gathered ranks of criminal slime and bolt through.

Arrows moaned their distinctive melody to strike flesh in the chests, stomachs, and throats of many a hardened rogue. They went down screaming as Thunder gained momentum and drew a wider gap between the human garbage and the priceless cargo the ’Paloose stallion bore. More gunshots crackled as the Sugarloaf hands invaded the residences of Dubois and shot down the toughs who had elected not to watch the destruction of the wife of Smoke Jensen. For all their villainous ways, they had retained their respect for women. It did them little good, as the vengeance-hungry ranch hands poured round after round into their hastily assembled ranks. Some broke and ran, escape a higher priority than any reward they might receive.

In all this confusion, Smoke and Sally quickly rode to safety. The entire confrontation had taken less than three minutes, Smoke discovered when they cantered across the small bridge at the west end of Dubois. Not bad at all. Behind him the volunteer fighters pulled back to make ready for the final assault. Not a one of the three responsible for this encounter would escape alive, Smoke Jensen had decreed.

Victor Spectre raved in fury at this debacle. He refused to look at it as a setback, let alone a defeat. When Ralph Tinsdale offered some platitude about their still holding the town, and that Smoke Jensen would be compelled to come to them, if he intended to do anything about it, Victor Spectre rounded on him, face carmine with rage.

“That is exactly the point. Smoke Jensen will absolutely come after us now. His wife is safe, he has those damned Indian allies and nothing to lose.”

Tinsdale tried to calm the outraged Victor Spectre. “Quite the contrary, I would think. Taken from Smoke Jensen’s viewpoint, why do anything more? He has his wife, safe and sound, why not simply pack up and go home?”

A malevolent glow burned in Spectre’s eyes. “Because Smoke Jensen does not play live and let live.
He will come.
He has a large enough force and we have taken losses. He knows that. When he came after me, he had no way of knowing Trenton and I would be alone in that barn. Yet, Jensen came without a single other man.”

Peevishly, Tinsdale snapped his opinion. “We should have killed that woman when we had the chance.”

“No, Ralph,” Victor Spectre answered, more calmed now. “Then we would have had a furious man on our hands to deal with. One who would not have stopped at burning down the entire town, if necessary, to get to us. What we should have done was to have Smoke Jensen back-shot and not stand around to gloat. The fact remains, Jensen will be coming. I want you to have the men ready for an attack at any time. And see that Olin is made as comfortable as possible. If he is up to it, give him a rifle he can use from his sickbed. We need every gun we can muster.”

“Mom!
Oh, Mom!”
Bobby ran to Sally Jensen with outstretched arms, his light, blond hair flopping on a round head, hat spilled off in his excited discovery of his adoptive mother among those who returned from town. Mother and son hugged delightedly and shed copious tears. Then Sally broke the embrace and stood the boy before her.

“You disobeyed Smoke and myself alike. I’m disappointed, Bobby. No, that isn’t true. I’m truly delighted to see you. For a while there, I didn’t—didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

Smoke walked over and cleared his throat gruffly. “We’re going to have to stop meeting like this, my dear. People will begin to talk.”

Sally feigned anger. “Is that all you have to say to me? Not hello? Or glad to see you?”

“No, it’s not all,” Smoke said through a grin. “If you’d had the muzzle of that Lightning any closer to my head when you popped off three rounds at the Lammer brothers, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Then he grabbed her and gave her a mighty hug that lifted Sally’s feet off the ground. “It’s so good to have you here. For a while there, I actually worried that it wouldn’t work.”

“What? The famous Smoke Jensen worried about a little thing like that?” Sally teased. For a moment her eyes swam with more tears. “Oooh, Smoke Jensen, I love you so. I never lost hope that you would come for me.”

Smoke was serious this time. “Coming for you is one thing. Getting you out unscratched is quite another. I’ve heard about it from Ike and the hands, but tell me, how did it really happen? How did you let it?”

Sally made a pained expression. “Darn it, they caught me at the sink, away from my purse and gun. If they would have come twenty minutes earlier, while I was shelling peas, there isn’t one of them would have left there alive. As it is, a couple of them didn’t. And there’s one I owe a lot of gratitude to. His name’s Sam something-or-other. If you can spare him, do so.” She described Sam Hutchins and told Smoke how he served as her protector when the others wanted to have their way with her. Smoke agreed that he deserved to live if possible. Then he excused himself and joined the other leaders for a short conference on how they would finish the remainder of the outlaw army.

“I don’t need to tell you that we have to hit them hard. And all at once. First the sentries on the edges of town. Then we close off the only streets that lead out and move in on the center of the business district.” He went on to give various assignments of specific buildings to the Indians and ranch hands. Zeke and Ezra he again positioned where they could bring long-range covering fire on the hotel. With that accomplished, and satisfied that the outcome would be in their favor, Smoke called for a good, hot meal before they went back to Dubois.

Running Snake looked across the expanse of tall grass to the village of the white men. He had grown up longing to do what he would in a minute be doing. As a small child, he had sat at the feet of the elders listening to their exciting tales of sweeping raids through villages: Arapaho villages, Absaroka villages, Sioux villages, and even white villages. They sang songs of the far off Tishmunga, Assinaboine, Modoc, and Hurons, who burned to the ground many settlements, villages, and even towns of the whites. The descriptions of flames leaping high thrilled him. Even with the admonition from Smoke Jensen to leave the people and their wood lodges alone and fight only the outlaws did not detract from Running Snake’s expectations.

This day, he vowed, would be sung about for many seasons to come. He waited only the signal to attack. The men had painted for war, their ponies wore feathers and ribbons braided in their tails and manes. Hand prints, circles, and lightning streaks in warpaint protected the animals from the bullets of the enemy. When the signal at last came, they would all know greatness.

And then it came!

Five shots blasted across from them. Running Snake raised his lance above his head and threw back his head. Mouth open wide, he uttered a chilling war cry and heeled his pony in the ribs. With a snort and grunt, the close-coupled mount sprang forward. Behind him twenty-eight warriors shrilled their own challenges and urged their horses to a gallop. Ahead, gaping residents of Dubois pulled back into their houses and ducked low, or flattened out on the floors.

To their utter amazement, the charging Indians rode on past without firing a shot. At least not until a handful of outlaws offered resistance. Then, bows twanged and arrows moaned. Old trade rifles barked. Ancient percussion revolvers, their brass fittings worn thin, snapped in anger and put balls from .36 to .44 calibers into the chests and faces of the enemy. Three of Spectre’s vermin died in the first hail of lead. Another took an arrow in the thigh and dropped to one knee. Before he could raise his .45 Colt to fire again, Running Snake drove the long, leaf-bladed head of his lance through the vulnerable chest. The flint point burst out the dying thug’s back, a foot of the shaft with it. The force of the powerful arm of Running Snake and the galloping pony rammed the tip into the ground and pinned the writhing ruffian, an insect specimen on a display card.

Abandoning the spear, Running Snake waved his arms to direct warriors into intersecting streets. Before he knew it, the Shoshoni leader found himself at the edge of the business district. Outlaws swarmed in confusion. Dust rose to obscure everything. Powder smoke wafted heavily on an indifferent breeze. Quickly he dismounted and brought his Spencer carbine to his shoulder. When the angry, shouting face of an armed white man came into the sights, Running Snake squeezed off a round.

It blew away the lower jaw of the outlaw and sent him reeling away down the street. Another quickly filled the empty space, face contorted by rage, who charged toward Running Snake with flame spitting from a six-gun, while the Shoshoni worked the lever action to open the breech and insert another paper cartridge in the breech. With too little time, Running Snake tried to bring up his weapon as a club, only to not have a need.

Smashed down by a tomahawk in the hand of Bright Sky, the thug splashed the roof post of the saddlery shop with his blood and brains. Running Snake completed loading, added a percussion cap to the nipple and looked around. To his surprise he saw they had advanced half a block. It would not take long now.

White Beaver could hardly contain his Arapaho brothers. Several curvetted their ponies in nervous circles. He vaguely believed it to not be right to have to wait for the white men to start the fighting. Especially two times. White Beaver was unaware that his thoughts echoed those of Running Snake. It would be so easy to race through these white lodges and burn everything. Why kill only some of those in the village? And why fight as ally to the Shoshoni? A spatter of gunfire lifted the restraint on his warriors and they streamed into town from the north.

To the right of White Beaver, one outlaw gaped in astonishment and shouted the news to his friends. “M’God, it’s Injuns! We’re bein’ attacked by Injuns.”

White Beaver swung his right hand and arm across his body and shot the outlaw with an old Dragoon pistol that had belonged to his father. The .44 ball smacked loudly into the left side of the thug’s chest and tore its way through both lungs. Constantly advancing, White Beaver did not see him fall. Nor did he see a local resident dash out behind the line of Indians to retrieve the weapons of the human trash. Instead, he snapped his arm right and upward to aim at a man in the second floor window of a house.

For an instant, his eyes locked with those of the gunhawk. White Beaver read fear there. Then the white renegade’s face washed into an expression of deep regret as he saw his death coming. The hammer fell on the Colt Dragoon in the hand of White Beaver. To the surprise of the Arapaho, the man was propelled forward by an unseen person to crash into the glass a moment before the bullet struck him in the neck. A voice followed.

“That’ll learn ya not to pester my littlest girl.” Quickly followed by, “Oh my God! That Injun shot him.”

More surprise awaited White Beaver as the dying outlaw fell through the air, his trousers around his knees. He hit the ground hard and did not move. The Arapaho war leader rode on. Another block and he signaled his warriors to break off and enter other streets, to close off the center of the village.

Victor Spectre, or someone working for him, learned quickly from mistakes, Smoke Jensen observed. Several marksmen with long-range rifles had been stationed on the roofs of two-story buildings in the downtown area. From there they could make things uncomfortable for those closing in on the outlaw band.

At least until one got careless and exposed himself to the still-keen eyesight of Ezra Sampson. Dust puffed up from the vest of the hard case and his head snapped back. Only a fraction of a second later, Smoke heard the report of Ezra’s Sharps. Immediately, two of the sharpshooters turned their attention toward the old mountain man.

Ezra’s next shot went far wide of the mark and Smoke knew he had been nicked at the least. No such condition afflicted Zeke Duncan, who promptly accounted for another of the roof-top shooters. The man’s back arched and he flopped face-first on a slate roof, to slide down to the edge and off. He landed on the ground with a loud plop. Four of the gunmen turned their fire on Ezra’s position. Ezra gave them a taste of the same with a .56 caliber ball that took off the back of the head on one outlaw. Then Smoke heard a faint cry from Ezra.

“Dangit, you done hulled my shoulder.”

Emboldened by this, the remaining marksmen incautiously showed themselves to jeer at the injured men. They quickly learned, much to their regret, that it took more than a scratch or a hole in a shoulder to stop one of the mountain breed. Two balls dropped as many men and the remainder scurried for cover.

A third suddenly yowled and went down with a Shoshoni arrow in his thigh. Smoke gave a slight nod of appreciation and moved to another vantage point, where he could study the ever-narrowing area where Spectre and his henchmen could still find shelter. Two thugs broke cover from inside the Watering Hole Saloon. With Smoke Jensen looking on, Ike Mitchell spun around the alley-side of the general mercantile and shot one rogue through the breastbone.

“Over here,” Smoke shouted at the other when Ike’s six-gun cylinder hung up on a backed-out primer.

Obediently, the fast-gun turned toward the sound of Smoke’s voice. His eyes widened when he recognized Smoke Jensen. Smoke also registered an eye-squint of surprise when he saw the features of Whitewater Bill Longbaugh. No slouch as a gunfighter, Longbaugh had been rumored to have gone into the land swindle game and left gun-slinging behind. Perhaps the amount of the price on Smoke’s head, or the chance to up his sagging reputation by claiming that head had been too tempting for Whitewater Bill.

Whatever the case, it became instantly obvious that Longbaugh lamented his decision. He crouched low, knees bent and torso leaned forward, as though already gutshot, and his face took on a pained expression. His thick lips worked and his voice came out cramped and weak.

“Awh, shit!” Then Longbaugh added in a whine, “Uh—Smoke, we don’t have to do this.”

“It’s you came here lookin’ for me. Now it’s time you started the dance.”

“There’s no other way?” Whitewater Bill pleaded.

At the negative shake of Smoke Jensen’s head, Whitewater Bill Longbaugh made a desperate grab for iron. He almost made it. He had his sweat-slicked fingers on the fancy pearl grips of his Smith and Wesson Scofield when Smoke cleared leather. Longbaugh gave a yank and the grips slid free of his insecure grasp. Instantly an expression of wild alarm washed over his face as he corrected and made another try.

Smoke had his barrel leveled and the hammer back when Longbaugh managed to draw the cylinder clear of his soft pouch holster. The barrel came out as Smoke’s hammer fell. A powerful blow struck Whitewater Bill in the gut as he looped his thumb over the hammer. Staggered by the impact of the bullet fired by Smoke Jensen, he wobbled into the middle of the intersection. With great effort, he raised his wheel-gun again and fired a round. It turned out to be the closest to good luck Longbaugh had since he had encountered Smoke.

Fire erupted along the side of Smoke’s left shoulder. The shallow wound had no effect on the outcome, since Smoke Jensen already had a second slug on its way to bury itself in the chest of Bill Longbaugh. Bright lights exploded behind the eyes of Longbaugh on impact. Quickly the shower of sparks faded into the eternity of blackness he would endure. Without regret, Smoke turned away to seek out another of Spectre’s henchmen. He had no trouble finding one. One that came at him from behind.