William Johnstone - Battle of the Mountain Man

Smoke heard a noise near the bunkhouse. Four of Chisum’s men were unloading dead bodies wrapped in canvas tarps from the back of a wagon, arranging four corpses in a neat row near the front porch. “We’ll make it,” Smoke said tonelessly. “Let’s get some shut-eye. Tomorrow I’ll pick out two hundred head of young cows for me and Sally’s new herd. Then we’ll be on our way.”

Pearlie turned away from the fence, yawning. “It’s been a spell since we had a roof over our heads. I’m gonna sleep like a baby tonight in one of them rawhide cots.”

“I’m ready to turn in,” Johnny agreed. “Cal’s gonna have a bellyache if he ain’t careful. I never saw a boy his size eat so much in one sittin’.”

Pearlie nodded as the four men ambled toward the bunkhouse. “I done told that boy he’s got worms. Can’t nobody eat that much without a bellyful of worms helpin’ him.”

Smoke gave the outlying black hills a passing inspection as they headed for bed. He wondered if the gunman named Jessie Evans had gotten word of what had happened to his crew of killers today. While he didn’t know anything about Evans, he was certain a shootist with a reputation on the line wouldn’t take any advice from a stranger… not until someone convinced him otherwise. Twenty-two

Boyd, Jack, and Lee Johnson were tobacco-chewing brothers from northwestern Arkansas, on the run from the law and Hanging Judge Isaac Parker’s unyielding rope justice in his judicial district. Judge Parker had been known to hang three men at the same time, a fate the Johnson brothers had hoped to escape by coming to New Mexico Territory. Boyd, eldest of the three, had but one eye, having lost the other to an Arkansas Toothpick knife similar in size to a Bowie. Along with the Johnsons came two cousins with similar reputations. Dewey Hyde was wanted for murder, in both Arkansas and Mississippi. Marvin Hyde had warrants out for him in Missouri charging him with murdering a Methodist minister for what was in the collection plates on a Sunday morning. As a gang, they were considered a blight on the citizens of Arkansas by Judge Parker, who ordered a squad of United States deputy marshals to chase them halfway across Indian Territory. But individually, none was more dangerous than one-eyed Boyd Johnson, a burly man with a thick red beard and deadly aim with a rifle. When Boyd and his followers answered Jessie’s call for experienced men who knew how to use a gun, it was a natural place for the Johnson brothers and the Hydes to show up.

As the hour approached midnight, Jessie led fourteen mounted men into the hills west of John Chisum’s South Springs ranch, all heavily armed. Jessie was still puzzled by the disappearance of Roy Cooper… It just wasn’t Cooper’s nature to turn tail and run. Roy, was utterly fearless in any kind of fight, whether it be with guns or knives or fists. Cooper wouldn’t have left the scene of a shoot-out without good reason, a plan of some sort to exact his brand of vengeance against this owlhoot named Smoke Jensen for taking the lives of Carlos, Jorge, and Raul. What Victor described, with Jensen charging recklessly into their guns, had to be nothing more than blind luck. Or stupidity. No man with all his faculties charged single-handedly into the teeth of seven riflemen behind cover. Those were the actions of a madman.

When they could see the ranch down below, Jessie held up his hand for a halt. A light was burning behind the windows of Chisum’s main house. The bunkhouse was dark.

“We’ll throw a circle around ’em,” Jessie explained, making a motion with his hand. “Catch ’em in a cross fire. Get as close as you can to that bunk-house, ’cause that’s where his paid guns are more likely to be. Pour lead into them windows an’ kill every son of a bitch who comes out them doors… There’s one at the back leadin’ to the outhouse. I’ll take four men an’ make a circle ’round the main house. Soon as the shootin’ starts, Chisum will come runnin’ out. One of us will get him an’ that’ll be the end of this cattle war for good.”

“What’ll Dolan say?” Tom asked. “He told us all we was supposed to do was rustle a few cattle an’ kill a few cowboys if they put up a fight. He never said nothin’ ’bout killin’ Chisum outright.”

“I’ll tell him it was an accident, that Chisum got in the line of fire. Main thing is to be sure we get this feller Smoke Jensen. It’s payback time for him. Victor said he was a real big feller, like Chisum, only he was wearing buckskins. Just be damn sure you kill him, whoever the hell he is. All that tough talk about him comin’ gunnin’ for me is gonna cost him. I’ll cut off his goddamn head an’ stick it on a fencepost at Bosque. Be a reminder to any son of a bitch who threatens me.”

Boyd Johnson urged his horse alongside Jessie’s, a Sharps rifle resting against his leg. “I’ll git him fer you, boss. All I gotta do is git him in my sights jest once.”

Jessie gave Boyd a sideways glance. “We’re about to find out if you’re as good as you claim to be. Kill Jensen, an’ I’ll talk to Dolan ’bout givin’ you a little bonus money.” He looked over his shoulder. “Take Victor with you so he can point him out in the dark. Just make damn sure you kill the son of a bitch, no matter what it takes.” Now Jessie spoke softly to the rest of his men. “Spread out. Billy, you an’ Tom an’ Bill Pickett come with me. Everybody else covers that bunkhouse. I’ll fire the first shot into one of them lighted windows at the big house. As soon as you hear it, start pourin’ lead into the place.”

Silent riders spread out in twos and threes, beginning a circle around the Chisum ranch headquarters. Jessie led his handpicked men down a grassy embankment, toward a stand of oak where they could tie their horses.

“I’m gonna enjoy this,” Pickett said. “Wish it was daylight so we could see ’em bleed better.”

Tom Hill spoke up again. “I sure hope Jimmy don’t get mad over this. He said he was glad we killed Tunstall, so he didn’t write no more complainin’ letters. Hope he feels the same way if we kill John Chisum.”

Jessie had some private doubts. Dolan wanted a controlled war that wouldn’t draw too much attention in the newspapers up in Santa Fe or over in Silver City, But when Victor brought back that message from Jensen, it got Jessie’s back up. “Ain’t no son of a bitch gonna threaten me like Jensen did,” he said. “I’ll tell Jimmy that Chisum was hirin’ too damn many gun-slicks, an’ we had to do somethin’ about it.”

Bill Pickett offered his opinion. “You worry too much, Tom. Dolan ain’t payin’ us to sit an’ whittle on a stick.”

They came to the trees and dismounted, taking rifles and a few extra boxes of cartridges along. Pickett carried a Winchester and his shotgun, one in each hand, as they began a slow walk through the darkness toward Chisum’s house, hunkered down to keep from being outlined against a night sky full of stars, in case Chisum had posted any guards.

“No dogs,” Pickett said as they neared the house. “Means I can get close enough to use ol’ Ten-Gauge Betsy.”

Jessie felt his pulse begin to race. Like Pickett, he was looking forward to a killing spree. His men had been idle too long, and until today, when this Jensen started killing a few of his pistoleros , things had been too damn quiet to suit everybody at Bosque Redondo. It was hard to keep men who killed for a living content unless they were doing what they were being paid to do. Twenty-three

Smoke lay asleep beside an open bunkhouse window when something he couldn’t identify disturbed his slumber. Several men across the room were snoring and for a moment he wondered what it was that had awakened him. Cletus Walker and Bob Williams were at the main house talking with Chisum over drinks, talking about the cattle market and some of Chisum’s troubles with the Santa Fe Ring and L.G. Murphy and Jimmy Dolan. Smoke had retired early, preferring sleep to conversation after so many days on the trail. But now something had interrupted his sleep, something beyond the window above his bunk.