William Johnstone - Code of the Mountain Man

When he had worked his way several hundred yards above his last location, he paused and looked down. The sight did not fill him with joy. There were at least thirty men in position, grouped in a semicircle, around where the manhunters believed him to be.

A grim smile curved his lips. He took four sticks of dynamite from his roll and planted them under four huge boulders, making each fuse slightly longer than the other. Then he lit the fuses and got the hell gone from there.

The explosives moved three of the huge boulders, sending them cascading down the mountain, picking up small boulders as they tumbled. Even from his high-up location, he could hear the screaming of the men as the boulders, large and small, crushed legs and arms and sent the manhunters scrambling for cover.

“You opened this dance, boys,” he said. “Now it’s time to pay the band.”

“Good God!” Cotton said, as the first of the shot up and avalanche victims came limping and staggering back into town.

Johnny stepped out into the muddy street and halted the parade of wounded. “Where’d you boys tangle with Smoke Jensen?”

A man with a bloody bandage tied around his head said, ‘just south of Del Norte Peak. They’s a half a dozen men buried under the rocks. Jensen is a devil! He caved them rocks in on us deliberate.”

“And I suppose you boys were just ridin’ around up there takin’ in all the scenery, huh?” Johnny said sarcastically.

The man didn’t answer. But his eyes drifted to the badge on Johnny’s chest. “You the law. I want to swear out a warrant agin Smoke Jensen.”

Johnny laughed at him. “Move on, mister.

There’s a new doctor just hung out his sign clown the street.”

“You ain’t much of a lawman,” another bounty hunter sneered at him. “What’s your name?” He spoke around a very badly swollen Jaw.

“Johnny North.”

The manhunter settled back in his saddle with a sigh and kept his mouth shut.

“Move on,” Johnny repeated. “And don’t cause any trouble in this town or you’ll answer to me.”

Cotton and Louis had stepped out, Louis out of his gambling house and Cotton out of the marshal’s office to stand on the boardwalk and watch the sorry-looking sight.

Cotton and Johnny joined Louis. “I count twelve in that bunch,” Louis said. “Did he say there were half a dozen buried under rocks?”

“Yeah. Smoke musta started a rock slide. Earl said he took a case of dynamite with him. When’s Earl gettin’ back? I ain’t seen him since he rode up to the county seat.”

“Today, I would imagine. He said he’d be gone three days. He was going to send some wires. I don’t know to whom, but I suspect they concern Smoke.”

“You think he really knows the President of the U—nited States?” Cotton asked.

“Oh, he probably does.” Louis smiled. “I do.”

Smoke reared up from behind the man, jerked the rider off his horse and slammed on to the ground. He hit him three times. Three short vicious right-hand blows that crossed the man’s eyes, knocked out several teeth, and left the rider unconscious. Smoke knew the guy slightly Name of Curt South. He was from Utah, Smoke remembered. A sometimes cowboy, sometimes bounty hunter, sometimes cattle thief, and all around jerk. He released Curt’s shirt, and the man fell to the ground, on his back, unconscious. Smoke left him where he lay and swung into the saddle. The stirrups were set too short, but he didn’t intend to keep the horse long.

Smoke headed across country, for the deep timber between Bennett Mountain and Silver Mountain. After a hard fifteen minute ride, Smoke reined up and allowed the horse to blow while he inspected the bedroll and saddle bags. The blankets smelled really bad and had fleas hopping around them. He threw them away and kept the ground sheet and canvas shelterhalf. He found a side of bacon wrapped in heavy paper and some potatoes and half a loaf of bread that wasn’t too stale. He smashed Curt’s rifle against a rock and swung back into the saddle.

Minutes later, he came around a clump of trees and ran right into the outlaw Blackjack Simpson —literally running into him. The two horses collided on the narrow game trail and threw both Lee and Smoke to the ground, knocking the wind out of both of them. Blackjack came up to his knees first and tried to smash Smoke’s head in with a rock. Smoke kicked him in the gut and sent the man sprawling.

Guns were forgotten as the two men stood in the narrow trail and slugged it out. Blackjack was unlike most gunmen in that he knew how to use his fists and enjoyed a good fight. He slammed a right against Smoke’s head and tried to follow through with a left. Smoke grabbed the man’s arm, turned, and threw him to the trail. Blackjack got to his feet, and Smoke busted his beak with a straight right that jarred the man right down to his muddy boots. The blow knocked him backward against a tree.

With the blood flowing from his broken nose, Blackjack came in, both fists swinging. Smoke hit him a left and right combination that glazed the man’s eyes and buckled his knees. Smoke followed through, seizing the advantage. He hammered at the man’s belly with his big, work-hardened fists, the blows bringing grunts of pain from Blackjack and backing him up.

Smoke’s boot struck a rock and threw him off balance. Blackjack grabbed a club from off the ground and tried to smash in Smoke’s head. Smoke kicked him in the parts, and Blackjack doubled over, gagging and puking from the boot to his groin.

Smoke grabbed up the broken limb and smacked Blackjack a good one on the side of his head. Blackjack hit the ground and didn’t move.

Smoke took the man’s guns and smashed them useless, then caught up with the spooked horse. He took Blackjack’s .44-.40 from his saddle boot and shucked out the ammo, adding that to his own supply. Then he smashed the rifle against a tree.

He knew he should kill Blackjack; the man was a murderer, rapist, bank robber, and anything else a body could name that was low-down and no-good. But he just couldn’t bring himself to shoot the man.

Trouble was, he didn’t know what the hell to do with him.

“Can’t do it, can you, Jensen?” Blackjack gasped out the words.

“Do what, Blackjack?” Smoke backed up and sat down on a fallen log.

“You can’t shoot me, can you?”

“I’m not a murderer.”

“That’ll get you killed someday, Jensen.” The man tried to get to his feet, and Smoke left the log and kicked him in the head.

Smoke took Blackjack’s small poke of food from his saddlebags, cut Blackjack’s cinch strap and slapped the horse on the rump. He swung into his saddle and looked at the unconscious outlaw.

“I should kill you, Blackjack. But I just can’t do it. If I did that, I’d be across the line and joined up with the likes of you. God forbid I should ever enjoy killing.”

He rode into the timber, straight for trouble.

Chapter Sixteen

Those men who came into Rio thinking the hunt for Smoke Jensen would be no more than a lark took one last look at those manhunters who staggered out of the mountains and hauled their ashes out of the country.

With their departing, they left behind them only the hardcases of the bounty hunting profession. Men who gave no thought to a person’s innocence or guilt. Men who were there only for the money.

“Amazing,” Earl said, gazing at the ever-growing number of manhunters converging on the town. “The mountains are full of members of the Lee Slater gang—all with a price on their heads—-and these dredges of society would willingly consort with them to get to Smoke.”

“There isn’t much to them,” Louis agreed. “I’ve seen their kind all over the West. Most lawmen don’t like them, and few decent members of society have anything more than contempt for them. But I suppose in some instances, they do provide a service for the common good.”