Johnstone, W. - Last Mountain Man

The miners listened quietly.

“I found Canning,” Felter said. “You all know what was done to him. Most awfullest thing I ever seen one white man do to another. Kid Austin was shot in the back; never even had a chance to pull his guns.”

Some of the miners believed Felter; most did not. They knew about Smoke, the stories told, and knew about Felter and his scummy crew. Some of them had known Preacher, and knew the mountain man would not take a murderer to raise as his son. The general consensus was that Felter and Sam and Canning were lying.

Felter had not told them of the men riding hard toward the camp; men sent by Richards and Stratton and Potter. That message was waiting for Felter when he arrived at the miners’ camp.

Several miners left the smoke-filled tent, to gather in the dusky coolness.

“Pass the word,” one said. “This boy Smoke is bein’ set up. We all know the story as to why.”

“Yeah. The fight’ll be lopsided, but I sure don’t wanna miss it. I hear tell this Smoke is poison with a short gun.”

“Myself. See you.”

Although the trail of Felter was three weeks old, it was not that difficult to follow: a bloody bandage from Canning’s wounds; a carelessly doused campfire; an empty bottle of laudanum and several pints of whiskey. And Indians told him of sighting the men.

It all pointed toward the silver camp near the Uncompahgre. And it also meant Felter was probably expecting more men to join him — probably more men than had attacked his cabin. How many brave men does it take to rape and kill one woman and a baby?

That thought lay bitter on his mind as he rode, following the trail with dogged determination.

Just south of what would soon be named Telluride, in the gray granite mountains, two miners stopped the young man on the spotted horse — stopped him warily.

“I was told you’d be ridin’ a big spotted horse with a mean look in its eyes,” a miner said. “I ain’t tryin’ to be nosy, young feller, but if you’re the man called Smoke, I got news.”

“I’m Smoke.” He took out tobacco and paper and rolled a cigarette, handing the makings to the miners.

“Thanks,” one said, after they had all rolled, licked, and lit. “’bout fourteen salty ol’ boys waitin’ for you at the silver camp. Most of us figure Felter lied ’bout what happened at your cabin. What did happen?”

Smoke told them, leaving nothing out.

“That’s ’bout the way we had it figured. Son, you can’t go up agin all them folks — no matter how you feel. That’d be foolish. They’s too many.”

“If they’re gun-hands for Potter or Richards or Stratton, I intend to kill them.”

“’Pears to me, son, they ’bout wiped out your whole family.”

“They made just one mistake,” Smoke said.

“What’s that?”

“They left me alive.”

The miners had nothing to say to that.

“Thanks for the information.” Smoke moved out.

The miners watched him leave. One said, “I wouldn’t miss this for nothin’. This here is gonna be a fight that’ll be yakked about for a hundred years to come. You can tell your grandkids ’bout this. Providin’, that is, you can find a woman to live with your ugly face.”

“Thank you. But you ain’t no rose. Come on.”

How the tall young man had managed to Injun up on him, the miner didn’t know. He was woods-wise and yet he hadn’t heard a twig snap or a leaf rustle. Just that sudden cold sensation of a rifle muzzle pressing against his neck.

“My name is Smoke.”

The miner almost ruined a perfectly good pair of long johns.

“If you got friends in that camp,” Smoke told him, “you go down and very quietly tell them to ease out. ’cause in one hour, I’m opening this dance.”

“My name is Big Jake Johnson, Mr. Smoke — and I’m on your side.”

Smoke removed the muzzle from the man’s neck.

“Thank you,” the miner said.

“Do it without alarming Felter and his crew.”

“Consider it done. But Smoke, they’s fourteen hardcases in that camp. And they’re waitin’ for you.”

“They won’t have long to wait.”

The mining camp, one long street, with tents and rough shacks on both sides of the dusty street, looked deserted as Smoke gazed down from his position on the side of a sloping canyon wall.

The miners had left the camp, retreating to a spot on the northwest side of the canyon. They would have a grandstand view of the fight.

Felter knew what was happening seconds after the miners began leaving, and began positioning his men around the shacky camp.

The owners of the two saloons had wrestled kegs of beer and bottles of whiskey up the side of the hill, and were now doing a thriving business. A party atmosphere prevailed. This was better than a hanging — lasted longer, and would have a lot more action. But when the first shot was fired, the miners and the barkeeps would head for pre-picked-out boulders and trees. Watching a good gunfight was one thing; getting shot was quite another.

“Felter!” Smoke called, his voice rolling down the hillside. “You and Canning want to settle this between us? I’ll meet you both — stand-up, two to one. How about it?”

In a shack, an outlaw known only as Lefty looked at Felter. “You ain’t never gonna take this one alive, Felter. No way.”

Felter nodded. “I know it.” He was crouched behind a huge packing crate. No one in his right mind would trust the thin walls to protect him. A Henry .44 could punch through four inches of pine.

“Give us the gold your Daddy stole!” Felter yelled. “Then you just ride on out of here.”

“My Pa didn’t steal any gold. He just took what your bosses stole from the South — after they murdered my brother. And I don’t have it,” Smoke said truthfully.

Smoke shifted positions, slipping about twenty-five yards to his right. He had seen a man dart from the camp, working his way up the side of the hill.

Smoke watched the man pause and get set for a shot. He raised the Henry and put a slug in the man’s belly, slamming him backward. The man screamed, dropped his rifle, and tumbled down the embankment, rolling and clawing on his way down. He landed in a sprawl in the street, struggling to get to his feet. Smoke shot him in the chest and he fell forward. He did not move.

The miners across the way cheered and hollered.

“Thirteen to go,” Smoke muttered. He again shifted positions, grabbing up the dead man’s Henry, shucking the cartridges from it, putting them in his pocket.

Smoke watched as men fanned out in the town, moving too quickly for him to get a shot. Just to keep them jumpy, Smoke put a round in back of one man’s boots. The man yelped and dived for the protection of a shack.

“You boys ridin’ with Felter!” Smoke yelled. “You sure you want to stay with this dance? The music’s gonna get mighty fierce in a minute.”

“You go to hell!” the voice came from a shack. A dozen other voices shouted curses at Smoke.

Two men sprang from behind a building, rifles in their hands. They raced into a shack. Smoke put ten .44 rounds into the shack, working his Henry from left to right, waist high.

One man screamed and stumbled out into the street, dropping his rifle. He died in the dirt, boot heels drumming out his death song. The second man staggered out, his chest and belly crimson. He sat down in the street, remained that way for a moment, then toppled over on his face.

Smoke shifted positions once more, reloaded, and called out, “Any more of you boys want to dance to my music?”

Canning looked at Felter, both of them crouched behind the packing crate. “Hell with the gold. I’ll settle for the eight thousand. Let’s rush him.”