Johnstone, W. - Last Mountain Man

“Goddamn you!” Clark squalled. He spat out a glob of honey. “Shoot me, for God’s sake! It’ll take me days to die like this. You’re a devil — you’re a devil!”

The ants found him and Clark’s screaming was awful in the afternoon.

Smoke blocked the screaming from his mind as he rode back to the cabin, across the plain, so lovely with its profusion of wildflowers. Nicole had loved the wildflowers, he recalled, often picking a bunch of them to brighten a shelf or the table.

By the cabin on the knoll, Smoke found a shovel and began his slow digging of graves, one smaller than the other. Seven would warn him if anyone approached from any direction.

He paused often to wipe the tears from his eyes.

Fourteen

Smoke covered the mounds of earth with armloads of wildflowers from the meadow. He asked God to take mother and son into His place of peace and love and beauty.

But Vengeance is Mine, Sayeth the Lord, popped into his brain.

“No, Sir,” Smoke said. “Not this time.”

Clark’s screaming had hoarsened into an animal bellow.

Smoke fashioned two crosses of wood and hammered the stakes into the ground at the head of each grave. He walked down to the creek bank, to the boulder where he had chipped Preacher’s name. He added two more names.

Smoke gathered up all the weapons of the dead bounty hunters and put them in the cabin. He had made up his mind to change to the Army .44s. He would pick out the best two later; there would be ample shot and powder. He dragged the bodies of the dead bounty hunters far out into the plain, leaving them for the wolves, the coyotes, and the buzzards, the latter already circling.

It was late afternoon, the dark shadows of blue and purple were deepening. On a ridge to the northeast, Felter watched, as best he could, through field glasses, until it became too dark to see.

“He buried his wife and kid,” Felter told the others. “Drug the other bodies out in the plain, buzzards gatherin’ now. And he staked out Clark on an anthill.”

“The bastard!” Canning cussed.

But Felter chuckled. “He ain’t no more bastard than us. He’s just tougher than rawhide and meaner than a grizzly, that’s all. Madder than hell, too.”

Kid Austin moaned in pain.

Felter gazed down into the dark valley. He could not help but feel grudging admiration for the man called Smoke. That would not prevent him from killing Smoke when the time and place presented itself, but it was good to know, at last, what type of man he would be going up against. Felter was one of the best at the quick-draw, but, he reasoned, why tempt fate in that manner when shooting a man in the back was so much safer?

But with this man called Smoke, he pondered, he would have to be very careful how he set up the ambush. For Smoke had been trained by the old mountain man, Preacher, and now Felter knew Smoke was as dangerous as a cornered grizzly. It would not be easy, but it could be done.

The bounty hunters made a cold camp that night. “Look sharp,” Felter told the first night guard. “We up against a curly wolf. If any of you doubt that, just listen when the wind changes, and you can hear Clark squallin’.”

No one spoke. They had all heard the howling of Clark. He was dying as hard as if he had been taken by Apache.

The Kid had never seen a man staked out before, but the others had come upon several.

The head would swell to twice its normal size from the ant stings; the eyes would be blind; the genitals would be grotesquely swollen; the lips would be swollen, turned inside out, and the tongue would finally swell up, blacken, and the man would choke to death, usually going insane long before that happened. It usually took two to three days.

Kid Austin shuddered in the night. He lay on his stomach on his blankets. “Smoke’s crazy!” he said.

Felter chuckled. “No … he’s just got a touch of mountain man in him, that’s all.”

On a mesa opposite the timber where Felter and the others slept, Smoke made his cold camp. Seven was on guard. Sleep finally took the young man in soft arms … almost as soft as the arms of Nicole.

And he dreamed of her, and of their son.

Long before first light touched the mountains and the valley, creating that morning’s panorama of color, Smoke was up and moving. He rode across the valley. Stopping out of range of rifles, by a stand of cottonwoods, he calmly and arrogantly built a cook fire. He put on coffee to boil and sliced bacon into a pan. He speared out the bacon and dropped slices of potatoes into the grease, frying them crisp. With hot coffee and hot food, and a hunk of Nicole’s fresh baked bread, Smoke settled down for a leisurely breakfast. He knew the outlaws were watching him; had seen the sun glint off glass yesterday afternoon.

“That bastard!” Canning cussed him.

But Felter again had to chuckle. “Relax. He’s just tryin’ to make us do something stupid. Stay put.”

“I’d like to go down there and call him out,” Kid said. His bravado had returned from his sucking on the laudanum bottle all night.

Felter almost told him to go ahead, get the rest of his butt shot off.

“You just stay put,” he told Austin. “Rest your butt. We got time. They’s just one of him, four of us.”

“They was twice that yesterday,” Sam reminded him.

Felter said nothing in rebuttal.

The valley upon which the outlaws gazed, and upon which Smoke was eating his quiet breakfast, as Seven munched on young spring grass, was wild in its grandeur. It was several miles wide, many miles long, with rugged peaks on the north end, far in the distance, snow covered most of the time, with thick forests. And, Smoke smiled grimly, many dead-end canyons. One of which was only a few miles from this spot. And he felt sure the bounty hunters did not know it was a box, for it looked very deceiving.

Clark had told Smoke, in the hopes he would only get a bullet in the head, not ants on the brain, that it was Canning who scalped his wife. Canning who first raped her. Canning who skinned her breast to make a tobacco pouch with the tanned hide.

Smoke cleaned up his skillet and plate and then set about checking out the two Remington .44s he had chosen from the pile of guns. Preacher had been after him for several years to switch, and Smoke had fired and handled Preacher’s Remington .44 many times, liking the feel of the weapon, the balance. And he was just as fast with the slightly heavier weapon.

He spent an hour or more rigging holsters for his new guns, then spent a few minutes drawing and firing them. To his surprise, he found the weapon, with its sleeker form and more laid-back hammer, increased his speed.

His smile was not pleasant. For he had plans for Canning.

Mounting up, he rode slowly to the northeast, always keeping out of rifle range, and very wary of any ambush. When Smoke disappeared into the timber, Felter made his move.

“Let’s ride,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

But after several hours, Felter realized they were being pushed toward the northwest. Every time they tried to veer off, a shot from the big Sharps would keep them going.

On the second day. Canning brought his horse up sharply, hurting the animal’s mouth with the bit. “I ’bout had this,” he said.

They were tired and hungry, for Smoke had harassed them with the Sharps every hour.

Felter looked around him, at the high walls of the canyon, sloping upward, green and brown with timber. He smiled ruefully. They were now the hunted.

A dozen times in the past two days they had tried to bushwhack Smoke. But he was as elusive as his name.

“Somebody better do something,” Felter said. “’cause we’re in a box canyon.”