William Johnstone - Code of the Mountain Man

“Somebody pull Daily outta that far!” a man yelled. “He’s a stinkin’ up ever’thang.”

“You pull him out,” another suggested.

“You go to hell!” the first man told him. “I ramrod this outfit, and you do what I tell you to do.”

The second man told the ramrodder where he could ram his orders. Bluntly.

Smoke waited, his Winchester .44 ready. He caught a glimpse of a checkered shirt and lined it up. It was a man’s arm. Smoke waited, let out some breath, took up the slack on the trigger and let the rifle fire. The man screamed and rolled on the ground, the bullet-shattered arm hanging painfully and uselessly. The .44 slug had hit the man’s elbow. Another out of action.

A smile of grim satisfaction on his lips, Smoke began working his way back, not wanting to risk any further shots. If he waited much longer, the hunter would soon become the hunted.

Back with Buck, he stepped into the saddle and took off in search of a hole.

“Damnit, Earl!” Mills hollered, waving the letter. “This is tampering with the mail. That’s against the law.”

“I didn’t tamper with anything,” the Englishman said. “The driver handed Smoke the mail, and Smoke told me to give this to you. I gave it to you.”

“You assisted him in getting away!”

“As far as I knew, he was a. free man. He could leave anytime he chose.” He shrugged. “He chose to leave.”

Mills stomped out of the office. The men who had escorted the prisoner up to the county seat had returned. Mills started hollering for them to saddle up, they had to find and arrest Smoke Jensen.

The marshals all looked at one another. Going after outlaws was one thing. Tangling with Smoke Jensen was quite another matter.

A trio of deputy sheriffs, come to fetch one of the prisoners in jail, exchanged glances. One asked, “You boys are gonna go do what?”

“We’re going to arrest Smoke Jensen,” Albert said glumly.

“What the devil for?” a deputy asked.

“Federal warrants,” Mills told him, walking up to the group standing on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. “The prisoners can remain in By the powers vested in me by the United States government, I am hereby deputizing you men as deputy U.S. Marshals. You will accompany us in the pursuit and arrest of Smoke Jensen.”

“You can go right straight to hell, too,” a deputy told him. “I ain’t got nothing against Smoke Jensen.”

“Me, neither,” another said.

The third deputy turned and started toward the alley.

“Where are you going?” Mills demanded.

“To the outhouse,” the man called over his shoulder. “And as full of it as you are, you best do the same.”

“You men do not seem to understand the gravity of this situation!”

“I understand this,” a deputy told him. “You go after Smoke Jensen, you’re gonna come back—if you come back at all—acrost your saddle.”

“Yeah,” the second deputy said. “If I was you, I’d sit on that warrant for a time. Smoke is a respected rancher of some wealth. I’ll wager than warrant ain’t worth the paper it’s written on. Besides, do you know what you’d get if you crossed a grizzly bear and a puma and a rattlesnake and a timber wolf and some monster outta Hell?”

“I have not the vaguest idea.”

“You’d get Smoke Jensen. You best leave him alone. That ol’ boy was born with the bark on and was raised up by mountain men and Injuns. They’s tribes all over the West sing songs about how feeroocious Jensen is. ’Sides, you ever heard of gunslingers name of Charlie Starr, Monte Carson, Louis Longmont, Johnny North, Cotton Pickens, and the like?”

“Of course, I’ve heard of them! What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Man, how’d you like to see them ol’ boys and thirty more just as randy come a-foggin’ in here, reins in their teeth and hands full of Colts, all of ’em mad at you?”

“That . . . would not be a pleasant sight,” Mills admitted.

“Pleasant sight! You couldn’t see nothin’ like it this side of Hell! Now you just pull in your horns and give that warrant time to rest, Mr. U.S. Marshal. Things will work out. You keep your nose out of Smoke Jensen’s business. That way, you’ll stay alive.”

“I have a job to do, sir!”

“So do we,” the deputy said. “But sometimes you got to let common sense take over. Smoke’s killed a lot of sorry ol’ boys in his time, but he ain’t no back-shootin’ murderer. All them he put in the ground was either stand-up fair fights—and usually he’s facin’ two or three at a time—or punks that was after him and he waylaid ’em to shorten the odds. You think about that warrant, mister. You think a long time about it. The longer you think, the longer you got to live.”

The deputies collected their prisoner and pulled out that afternoon. The RCMP were due in town within the next several days. Mills looked at Earl, looking at him.

“You’ll stay to sign the papers and give the prisoner to the Canadians?”

“Uh-huh. Where are you going?”

“I have a man to arrest.”

“You best use pen and paper in the office, then,”

Earl said solemnly.

“To do what, sir?” Mills asked.

“To leave me the name of your next of kin.”

Foolishly, the outlaws in the camp Smoke attacked came after him. He led them on a goose hunt in the mountains and then tired of the game. He dismounted and took his rifle from the boot, then selected a position on a ridge where he could effectively cover his back trail.

The gang came in a rush, whipping their lathered and tired horses. Smoke emptied two saddles, and the others retreated down the slope, for the moment out of range. Smoke nibbled on a cold biscuit, took a sip of water, and waited. The old mountain man Preacher had taught him many things as a boy, one of which was patience.

After several moments, a man shouted out, “Who you be up yonder?”

“An avenging angel!” Smoke returned the shout, then shifted positions.

He could not hear the reply, if any, but he was certain the mutterings among the scum were highly profane.

“What’s your beef with us?” someone finally shouted.

Smoke shifted his eyes, sensing that conversation on the part of the outlaws would be nothing more than a cover for someone trying to slip around and flank him.

But he had not chosen his position without an eye for detail. To his left lay a sheer rock face. To his right, a clear field of fire, virtually without cover for anyone except a very skilled Indian warrior. The outlaws would have to come at him from the front.

“You deef up there?”

Smoke offered no reply. A few shots were fired at him, but they fell far short of his position. It was an impasse, but one that Smoke knew he would win simply because he had more patience than the outlaws. The men he had shot lay sprawled on the trail. One he had shot dead, the other had died only moments before, gutshot and dying hard, calling out for God to help him. The same God the girls he had helped rape and torture had called out to, no doubt.

Smoke watched as the men broke cover and ran for their horses. He waited and watched as they rode back down the trail. Smoke slipped back to Buck, booted his rifle, and took off. He would hit another outlaw camp that evening. He liked the night. He was very good in the night. The Orientals had a word for it that Smoke had read in a book Sally had bought for him. Ninja.

He liked that.

* * *

“That dude is still at the hotel, ma’am,” a hand reported to Sally. “He’s gonna get his ashes hauled if he don’t stop with the bad mouth against Smoke.”

“He’d just sue you,” Sally told him.

“One of them,” the hand said disgustedly. “I’m afraid so. What’s he saying about my husband?”