William Johnstone: Battle of the Mountain Man

Smoke knew he had precious little time to reduce the odds against them before Evans led his men charging toward the herd.

The young Apache never heard Smoke’s stealthy approach up to his hiding place behind a tree, and when the tomahawk hit the back of his head, splitting it in half like a ripe melon, he did not utter a word or make a sound, crumpling to the forest floor in a growing pool of blood. Smoke knew there were two more Indians watching the herd somewhere… he’d found three ponies in a thicket, tied to low tree limbs.

Racing away from his third kill, Smoke saw a shadow move at the base of another oak tree at the edge of the prairie.

“They’re makin’ it easy for me, spreadin’ out like this,” he said in a feathery whisper.

Practicing the stalking art he’d learned from Preacher, Smoke came up behind an Apache cradling a Spencer rifle, peering around the oak to see the distant cattle herd. But this Indian somehow sensed something near him as Smoke leaped forward… he turned, just in time to see the flash of steel coming at him in a high arc above his head.

The pop of breaking bone ended a total silence in the forest when Smoke’s tomahawk cleaved open the Apache’s forehead, driving him back against the tree briefly. Then he sank to his knees as Smoke pulled the blade free amid a torrent of blood coming from a wound eight inches deep between the Indian’s eyes.

Smoke didn’t wait to see the Apache fall. He was running to the south when he heard a muted plop behind him.

He found the last Indian relieving himself behind a bush with his rifle leaning against a pinon pine. There wasn’t time to allow the Apache to empty his bladder before he died from a sweeping slash across the side of his throat from a tomahawk severing his head.

Smoke darted behind a tree, listening. Farther to the south he heard the clank of a metal spur rowel.

“Here comes the rest of the army,” he told himself. It was unlikely there could be any more killing without gunfire, and the commencement of all-out war.

Smoke trotted back to the fork of a tree where he’d hidden his rifle, passing five lifeless bodies in the soft light of a coming sunrise, the air already thick with the scent of blood.

A lone Mexican squatting behind a thick tangle of thorny brush gave Smoke one more chance to kill soundlessly. A blow to the head by a tomahawk snuffed out the Mexican’s life before he realized someone was behind him. He went over on his face in the briars with blood pumping from his skull, oblivious to the scratches on his bearded cheeks and chin where sharp thorns tore into his flesh.

Smoke paused and took a deep breath. His killing instincts had once again overtaken him, pushing everything else from his mind. But just once, before he took off looking for more victims in the forest, he thought about the promise he’d made to Sally to steer clear of a fight, if he could.

“She’d understand,” he whispered. He’d done everything he could to warn Jessie Evans and Jimmy Dolan what would happen if they pushed him.

He moved more slowly now, with light beaming over eastern hills that would reveal his presence. Carrying the Winchester in one hand, a pistol in the other, he’d belted the tomahawk, for it had done all the damage it could before sunrise.

Smoke stepped among the trees, halting often to sweep the forest for any sign of the enemy. When it was safe to continue, he moved south, wondering if Evans had split his forces so that some were already surrounding the herd.

Can’t be two places at once , he thought, trotting wherever he could, walking where there was less cover.

Then he saw what he’d been expecting all along, a bunch of mounted men waiting in a draw surrounded by slender oaks. He froze behind a tree to count them.

“A baker’s dozen,” he whispered. Thirteen men would be hard to tackle single-handed. Smoke knew he had no choice. Thirty-four

A pistol in each hand, his Winchester lying between his feet within easy reach, Smoke straightened up behind a bush at the lip of the ravine—as with the five Apaches, these men would get no warning before they died—this was open war now.

He began firing methodically, one pistol, then the other, sending a stream of lead into the gully while the roar of exploding gunpowder filled his ears. Bullets tore through flesh in a steady stream, snapping bone and gristle, piercing organs and muscle. Frightened horses whickered and reared, plunging to be free of the pull of reins as riders toppled down into a mass of churning hooves.

Cries of pain, screams of agony accompanied the gun blasts and the sounds of terrified horses. Taken completely by surprise, the gunmen merely sought an escape from the deadly hail of hot slugs pouring down on them, but as each one made a dash toward freedom, he was cut down, knocked from his saddle by a bullet. Not a shot was fired back at Smoke until both his pistols were empty, and as he seized his rifle, only two unharmed members of Evans’s gang remained aboard their horses. One was able to ride into the trees before Smoke could get off a rifle shot, but the second, a heavy Mexican, met his end as he was spurring his horse behind the first to flee. A rifle slug caught him in the ribs, cracking when it penetrated bone while passing into his chest. He fell sideways, with his right boot caught in a stirrup, so that as his horse galloped out of sight he was dragged along in its wake, leaving a trail of blood through the forest.

Smoke was moving before the echo of his rifle shot faded away, hurrying away from the scene, a ravine filled with writhing bodies and motionless corpses.

He raced back among the trees toward the herd, certain that now Evans would order a full charge toward the cattle. As he was running, he reloaded his Colts, cradling his rifle in the crook of his arm.

And as he expected, he heard the rumble of pounding hooves coming from the south and east. Men came pouring from the pines in every direction, spurring their mounts into a hard gallop, and even a quick count revealed there were far more of them than Smoke had anticipated. It appeared that twenty or more riders were rushing onto the prairie, and now the crackle of guns went back and forth almost in unison.

“The yellow bastard hired every gun in Lincoln County,” Smoke growled, running faster, hurrying toward a position where he could help Pearlie and Cal and Johnny and his neighbors by firing from the enemy’s flank. Until he was in range, he dared not waste a shot, telling Evans and the others where he was.

Answering fire came from Smoke’s friends, only a few shots at a time right then. In his heart, Smoke doubted everyone in his crew could make it through a war like this without a scratch, and the thought saddened him momentarily, until blind rage overtook his sorrow.

“I’m comin’, Evans!” he bellowed, knowing no one could hear him in the melee, racing along the edge of the forest with a killing fever burning in his brain.

An unexpected bit of good fortune presented itself just as he was nearing a thick oak trunk. Three riders came charging out of the trees with guns blazing, unaware that Smoke was only a few dozen yards away.

Smoke stumbled to a halt and drew a bead on the first rider with a pistol, firing too quickly, shooting high and wide. He triggered off a second shot as all three men turned toward the sound of his gun.

A man in a dirty brown Stetson flipped off his horse when Smoke’s second bullet found its mark. Smoke fired again at another gunman, more careful with his aim now. A Mexican with cartridge belts across his chest went down, his sombrero fluttering away while he fell.

The third rider fired at Smoke, a hurried shot from the back of a moving horse. A molten slug screamed high above Smoke’s head. Smoke downed him with a booming pistol, watching another Mexican gunman fly out of his saddle with his face twisted in pain.