William Johnstone - Code of the Mountain Man

He concluded that Slater had split his people up into at least three bunches. Maybe four since he wasn’t sure of the size of the gang. This gang of trash and thugs numbered about fifteen. They were all heavily armed, their weapons looking well-used but well-cared for.

Smoke moved closer, to better listen.

The outlaws were bitching about the inactivity and the lack of women and whiskey. They bragged about the men and women they had killed and raped and tortured. Smoke’s face tightened in silent rage as the men laughed about the two little girls they’d had back up the trail.

Smoke knew which two girls they were talking about.

He’d buried them both.

He watched one man leave the bonfire-lighted area and move toward the dark timber, toward where Smoke squatted, waiting to strike. The man was removing his galluses as he walked to find a spot to relieve himself.

He was taking his last walk.

Smoke wiped his bloody blade clean on the dead man’s shirt and shifted positions after rolling the body under some brush. He moved right to the edge of the encampment, very close to where an outlaw lay on his dirty blankets, his head on a knapsack probably filled with his possibles.

Smoke edged closer and looked with disgust at what was tied to the man’s saddle. A human scalp. Blonde hair. Long blonde hair. He knew where that came from, too. One of the little girls he’d buried.

Smoke cut the man’s throat with a movement as furtive as a ghost and as fast and as deadly as a viper. He eased the man’s head down until his chin was resting on his chest. With the bloody knife in his hand, Smoke backed away, again shifting positions, working his way around to the other side of the camp. He paused along the way to wipe his blade clean on some grass.

“Hey, Frank!” one outlaw yelled. “Did you get lost out in them woods?”

Frank lay as silent as the woods.

“Frank?” the call was repeated several times by half a dozen of the thugs.

The outlaws looked at one another, suspicion and a touch of fear entering their eyes.

“Dolp ain’t moved none,” one outlaw observed, looking at the man with his head on his chest.

“All that hollerin’ would have been shore to wake him up,” another remarked.

“Well, he ain’t moved. Somebody go over yonder and kick him a time or two.”

A man walked over to Dolp and nudged him with the toe of his boot. Dolp’s head lolled to one side and he fell over, the movement exposing the horrible wound on his neck.

Smoke eared back the hammer on his Winchester.

The outlaw screamed, “His throat’s been cut.”

Smoke shot him, the .44 slug severing his spine. The man slumped to the ground in a boneless heap.

The camp erupted in a mass of yelling, running men, all grabbing for their weapons and firing in every conceivable direction, hitting nothing but air.

Smoke shot one in the belly, doubling him over, and dotted another’s left eye with lead. He decided it was time to haul out of there; he’d pushed his luck and skill far enough.

He left behind him a camp filled with frightened and confused outlaws. They were still shooting at shadows and hitting no more than that. However, Smoke thought, if he was lucky, two or three of them might shoot one of their own.

“They had a bad home environment,” he muttered, as he silently made his way back toward his horses. “I’m going to have to remember to tell Sally about this new excuse for becoming a criminal. She probably could use a good laugh.”

An hour later he rolled up in his blankets and was asleep in two minutes. He did not worry about the outlaws finding his camp. They were probably still trying to figure out what had hit them on what they considered to be home ground. And had they been more careful, it would have been safe ground. It was rugged country; no country for a tenderfoot. And a man could easily live off the land—there were bear, deer, elk, and plenty of streams in which to fish. But an outlaw wasn’t going to do anything like that; they were too damn lazy and sorry. If they couldn’t steal it, they didn’t want it.

Smoke woke up to the sounds of a jaybird fussing at him, telling him it was a pretty day and to stop all that lollygagging around in the bed. As was his custom, Smoke did not move for a moment, letting his eyes sweep the terrain around him for trouble. He spotted nothing to indicate trouble. Birds were singing, and the squirrels were jumping and dancing from limb to limb. He rolled out of his blankets and pulled on his boots, put his hat on his head, and slung his guns around his waist.

He chanced a very small fire to boil his coffee. When the coffee was ready, he put out the fire and contented himself with a cold breakfast of bread and some berries he’d picked from nearby bushes.

By now, he figured, riders would have gone out from the camps he’d attacked, and Lee Slater, if he was not a stupid man, and Smoke didn’t think he was—just a no-good, sorry excuse for a human being—would be pulling in his people, massing them for some planning. That was fine. Smoke figured he’d done enough head-hunting in this area. Today he would begin his ride over to the Seven Slash range and see what mischief he could get into there.

He pondered his future as he sipped his coffee. It would be at least another day or two before his friend, the federal judge up in Denver, received his letter. Another day or two before whatever action he took—if any, and that was something Smoke had to consider—went into effect.

But a much more dangerous aspect of his situation had to be taken into consideration: bounty hunters. As soon as word hit the country that a reward was out for Smoke Jensen and judge Richards probably made it dead or alive—the country would be swarming with bounty hunters and those looking for a reputation as the man who killed Smoke Jensen.

Well, he thought, I’ve done this before, so it’s nothing new to me. I’ll just have to ride with my guns loose and my eyes missing nothing.

He broke camp, saddled up, and headed for Seven Slash range.

“Had to be Jensen,” Lee Slater spoke to some of his men. “Nobody else would be that stupid . . .”

It never occurred to Lee that stupid had nothing to do with it. “Skilled” was the word he should have used in describing Smoke’s attack on his camps.

“. . . He’s got to be tooken out. And tooken out damn quick. He could screw up the whole plan.”

“What plan?” a gunny who called himself Tap demanded. “All we been doin’ for clays is sittin’ around on our butts. If somethin’ don’t happen pretty damn quick, I’m pullin’ out for greener pastures.”

Zack nodded his head in agreement. “I’m with Tap. We got money in our pockets and no place to spend it. They’s thousands of dollars worth of gold and silver in this area, and we ain’t doin’ a damn thing about takin’ it. I’m tarred of sittin’ around. Let’s get into action, Lee.”

Lee knew he could not hold his men back much longer. Not and keep his gang together And he knew he had to do that because there was strength in numbers. Luttie was moving too slow to suit Lee. He couldn’t understand why his brother was dragging his boots. He needed to see Luttie, but it was risky leaving the mountains just for a visit.

“Couple more days, Zack,” the outlaw leader said.

“I promise you . . .”

The men all looked up at the sound of a rider coming into camp. “I got news!” the rider yelled.

He swung down and poured himself a cup of coffee, then walked over to Lee, waving the other men close in.

“Well?” Lee demanded. “What news?”

“Lemme drink some coffee, man!" the outlaw said. “Catch my breath. I been ridin’ all night to get here.” He drained his cup and tossed the dredges. “A federal judge back East done put out warrants on Smoke Jensen. Murder warrants from that shootin’ over to Idaho some years back. Three warrants. The reward money totals over thirty thousand dollars to the man who brings him in—dead or alive.”