William Johnstone: Code of the Mountain Man

“Men are not animals, Smoke.”

“You’re right. Many men aren’t nearly as good as animals. Animals don’t kill for no reason. They kill to protect their mate or their cubs. They fight for territory and food. Only man kills for the fun of it. And there are lots of species of animals who won’t tolerate a rogue animal. One of their kind goes bad, the others will drive it out or kill it.”

“I can’t make you understand,” Mills said, shaking his head.

“One of us can’t,” Smoke said. He stood up and walked out of the dining room, climbing the stairs to his room.

“Keep an eye on his room,” Mills said, after waving one of his men over. ‘just sit right there in the lobby.

It’s the only way out.”

Smoke had paid in advance, as was the custom, and in his room, he gathered up his gear, slung the saddlebags over his shoulder, and climbed out the window, swinging up to the roof. He jumped over to the next building, climbed down, and walked through the alley to the livery, entering the back way.

“Figured you’d be along shortly,” the stableman said, walking back to meet him. “Heard them Eastern lawmen want to capture Lee and his bunch alive for a fair trial and all that.”

“That’s their plan.” Smoke threw a saddle on Buck and secured his gear.

The man spat in the dirt. “I’ll go get you a poke of food for the trail.”

Smoke tried to give him money. The man shook his head. “This one’s on me. I’ll be right back.”

By the time Mills Walsdorf discovered that Smoke was gone, Smoke was halfway between Gap and Beaver Creek.

“He’s what?” Mills jumped up.

“He’s gone,” Winston said glumly. “Liveryman said he pulled out this morning.”

“How?” Mills yelled.

“On his damn horse, I suppose!” the marshal said.

“Oh! . . .” Mills brushed the man aside and ran up the stairs to Smoke’s room. It was empty. “Climbed out the window, up to the roof, and went down into the alley. Damn! Tell the men to provision up and get mounted. We’re pulling out. We have got to see that justice is done. It’s our sworn duty. This lawlessness has got to stop. And by God, I intend to be the one to stop it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke cooked his supper, rested, and then wiped out all signs of his camp before moving on several miles to make his night’s camp. He made a cold camp, not wanting to attract any visitors by building a fire. As he lay rolled up in his blankets, his saddle for a pillow, his thoughts were busy ones.

Was he wrong for being what many called out of step with the times? Was he too eager to kill? Had he reached that point that many men good with a gun feared: had he stepped over the line and begun to enjoy killing?

He rolled over on his back and stared at the stars.

He knew the answer to the last question. No, he did not enjoy killing. He did not enjoy seeing the light fade from a man’s eyes as the soul departed.

Was he too eager to kill? He didn’t think so, but that might be iffy. He had killed a lot of men since those days when he and his father had left that hard-scrabble rocky farm back in Missouri and headed west. But they were men who had pushed him, tried to kill him, or had done him or a loved one harm.

What was that line from Thoreau that Sally loved to quote to him? Yes. He recalled it. “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a. different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”

But is my drummer beating out the right tattoo? he wondered. Am I marching toward the wrong side of the law? What would I really do if Mills Walsdorf tried to arrest me? Would I draw on a badge?

He drifted off to sleep before an answer came to him.

He slept soundly and was up before dawn, waiting until the sun broke over the horizon before building a small fire to boil his coffee and fry his bacon. He sopped out the grease with part of a loaf of bread the liveryman had put in his poke and then broke camp.

He crossed Beaver Creek and would stay to the east of Wolf Creek Pass and Park Creek. This time of the year, early spring, Wolf Creek Pass would be chancy. He was pretty sure Slater and his pack of hyenas would stay clear of Pagosa Springs—which means “Indian healing waters.” The town was not a new one, and was populated by men who would not look kindly upon outlaws coming in and raising hell.

And Pagosa Springs was also where Smoke, when he was about nineteen years old and still running with the old mountain man, Preacher, had gunned down Thompson and Haywood. A few days prior to that, he had put lead in two men in a tough mining town named Rico.

The name Smoke Jensen was legend in Colorado and those states bordering it to the west, north, and south.

It was wild and beautiful country he was riding through. Still wild and beautiful despite the onslaught of settlers from the East. This was not farming country, although a few were running cattle in the area. There was a little bit of a town down near Mix Lake, just north of the Alarnosa River. That would be ideal for Slater and his crud to hit.

Faint tracks indicated that Slater and his bunch had split up into small groups, but they were all heading in a southeasterly direction. More south than east. That would put the little settlement directly in their path.

And since Smoke had learned that the bunch had worked the west coast for most of their outlaw careers, and really knew little about this country, he had one up on them there. For he had traveled this country since a teenager, and knew short cuts that only mountain men and Indians knew of.

He turned south and put Del Norte peak to his right, riding right through some of the most rugged country the state had to offer . . . and that was saying a mouthful. He climbed higher and higher and nooned with a spectacular view for his dessert.

Uncasing his field glasses, he began a slow careful sweep of the area. He spotted half a dozen smokes from cook fires, all well to the north of his location.

He smiled. Slater and his bunch were hopelessly tangled up, taking the rough and rugged way to the settlement.

Smoke smiled as he chewed on a biscuit filled with roast beef. Come on, Slater, he thought. I’ll be waiting for you.

The settlement was still half a day’s ride ahead of him when he ran into two unshaven and thoroughly mistrustful-looking men riding down the narrow road.

The riders eyeballed him suspiciously as they neared where Smoke sat his horse, his right hand resting near the butt of his .44.

“You boys look like you been riding hard,” Smoke said. “Plumb tuckered out.”

“You figure that’s any of your business?” one asked.

“My, aren’t we grouchy today. just trying to be friendly, boys.”

The other rider muttered curses under his breath.

“Heading down to the settlement, boys?”

The pair reined up. “You got a nose problem, you know that, mister,” one said.

“I don’t have near the problems you boys are about to have.” ,

“Huh? What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean is, if you boys think the reception you got up in Big Rock was hostile, you’re about to learn that was a picnic compared to what’s looking at you now.”

The outlaws had moved their horses so that they both faced Smoke.

“I think, mister,” the bigger of the two said, “that you got a big fat mouth. And I think I’ll just close it e permanently.”

“Before you do that, I got a message for you.”

“From who?”

“From that woman and her two daughters you raped and killed up north of here.”

The two men sat their horses and stared at Smoke.

“And from her husband that you trash used for target practice.”