William Johnstone - Code of the Mountain Man

Smoke smiled and handed Earl a letter from the U.S. Marshal’s office in Washington, D.C. “I told the driver I’d see that Mills got this. Next time the stage runs, give this to him.”

Earl chuckled. “I don’t believe that delay will disappoint Mr. Walsdorf one bit.”

Smoke grinned. “I may be on the run, but I’m going to see if I can’t harass Luttie Charles and the Slater gang while I’m dodging the law.”

“One-man wrecking crew?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“You’ll stay in this area?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll check back with you from time to time. If the town fills with U.S. Marshals, tie a piece of black cloth on the bridge railing north of town. I’ll be warned then.”

“Will do.”

“Take care of my little dog for me, will you, Earl?”

“I certainly shall.”

“I anticipated this, so I moved my gear out of the hotel yesterday and stowed it in the shed out back.”

“I’ll go get you provisioned.”

Smoke sat down behind the desk and cleaned his .44s and his rifle. He filled a pouch full of shotgun shells and cleaned a Greener. He put on a fresh pot of coffee to boil and then went out back to the shed. There he checked on the bag of dynamite he’d bought along the trail coming here and carefully inspected his fuses and caps, then replaced them in a waterproof pouch and rewrapped the bag in canvas.

He checked his clothing in his saddle bags and found they had not been disturbed; the same with his bedroll and ground sheet. He went back into the office and picked up the little dog, petting it.

“You behave yourself now,” he said softly. “Mind Earl, You hear?”

The little dog wriggled and squirmed and licked his hand, and Smoke smiled at its antics.

Earl opened the door. “You’re all set,” he said.

“The food should last five or six days if you’re careful. I put half a dozen boxes of .44s in the pack for you.”

“I’ll pull out now, then. Leave the back way. Take care of yourself, Earl.”

The Englishman winked at him. “You take care of yourself, friend. I told the livery man to get lost for a few minutes. You should have no trouble.”

Smoke slipped out the back, picked up his gear from the shed, and made his way to the livery stable. Buck was about ready to kick in the walls of his stall. He was a horse that liked to ramble, and he’d been confined to a stall for just too damn long. He tried to step on Smoke’s foot, and when that failed, tried to bite him.

“Settle down, damnit,” Smoke told him, smoothing out the blanket and tossing the saddle on him, cinching it down. For once, Buck didn’t try to puff up on him. Smoke stowed his gear on the pack horse, one of the strongest and best-looking pack animals he’d ever seen, and led both horses out the back. He swung into the saddle and looked back at the town.

“You better hunt you a hole, Judge Richards,” he spoke softly. “ ’Cause when this is over, I’m coming after you and I’m going to stomp your guts into a greasy puddle. And that’s a promise, you damn shyster.”

He touched his spurs to Buck’s sides, and they moved out, heading into the wild country of southern Colorado.

Smoke made his first night’s camp just off the Continental Divide Trail. As was his custom, he cooked his supper over a hat-sized fire, then erased all signs of it and moved several miles before bedding down for the night. It was a cold camp, but a safe one.

Up before dawn, he walked the area several times, stopping often to listen. The horses were relaxed, and Buck was better than a watch dog. Satisfied that he was alone, Smoke built a small fire against a rock wall and cooked his breakfast of bacon and potatoes and boiled his coffee.

After eating, he washed his dishes, packed them, and sat back down for a cigarette and some ruminating.

First of all, he wanted to find the Slater gang and start his little war with them. He could not get the picture of that man and woman and the girls he’d found along the trail out of his mind. Men who would do something like that were not to be considered human beings, and it would be very unfair to call them animals. Animals didn’t do things like that. Animals killed for a reason, not for sport and fun. He had promised the dying woman that her grief and pain would be avenged. And Smoke always kept his promises.

He picketed the pack animal in the deep woods, near plenty of water and graze, and saddled Buck. “You ready to go headhunting, boy?”

Buck swung his big head and looked at Smoke through mean eyes. Buck was anything but a gentle animal. Smoke could handle him, and the horse had never harmed a child. But with adults whom he disliked, and that was most of them, the animal could be vicious.

“I thought so,” Smoke said, and swung into the saddle.

He climbed higher, staying in the thickest timber and brush he could find and letting Buck pick his way. Coming to a halt on a ridge that offered a spectacular view for miles around in all directions, Smoke dismounted and took field glasses from his saddlebags and began carefully scanning the area.

His sweep of the area paid off after only a few minutes. He knew where the mining camps were, and where the few homesteaders lived—this was not a country for much farming other than small gardens—and discounted them. With a smile on his lips, he put his binoculars back into the saddlebags and mounted up.

He figured it was time to be sociable and do some calling on folks. Two hours later, he picketed Buck and hung his spurs on the saddle horn. Taking his rifle, he began making his way through the timber, carefully and silently working his way closer to what he figured was an outlaw camp. He bellied down in thick underbrush when he got within earshot of the mangy-looking bunch of hardcases.

“I’m a-gittin’ tarred of this sittin’ around doin’ nothin’,” a big, ugly-looking man said. “I say we go find us some homesteaders with kids and have our way with the girls.”

“Nice young tender girlies,” another man said with a nasty grin. “I like to hear ’em squall.” He pulled at his crotch. “I like to whup up on ’em, too.

I like it when they fight.”

“Maybe we could find us a man to use as target practice,” another mused aloud. “Kill ’im slow. That’s good fun.”

“Slater says we got to wait,” yet another outlaw said. “They gonna be shippin’ out gold and silver in a few days, and we wait until then.”

“Let’s hit the town,” a man suggested, leaning over and pouring a tin cup full of coffee from a big pot. “We’re runnin’ out of grub and besides, they’s wimmin in that little town. I seen me a big fat one. I like fat wimmin. More to whup up on when they’s fat.”

Smoke shot him in the belly.

The gut-shot outlaw screamed and threw the coffee pot, the contents splashing into another man’s face. The scalded punk howled in pain and rolled on the ground, both hands covering his burned face.

The gunny who liked to rape little girls jumped to his boots, his hands filled with six-shooters. He looked wildly around him. Smoke took careful aim and shot a knee out from under the man, the .44 slug breaking the knee.

The man folded up and lay screaming on the ground, his broken knee bent awkwardly. He would be out of action for a long time.

Smoke lined up a punk who’d grabbed up a rifle and put a round in the center of his chest. The man dropped like a rag doll and did not move. He had fallen into the campfire, and his clothing ignited in seconds. The stench of burning flesh began to foul the morning coolness.

Smoke shifted positions as the outlaws fell into cover and began slinging lead in his direction. He rolled for several yards and then belly-crawled a dozen more yards, coming up behind a huge old fallen log.