William Johnstone: Battle of the Mountain Man

He’d gone over what he meant to do a thousand times, not raising his head at all when the rider got close, waiting until he heard a horse in the river. Jensen would be looking for any kind of movement, and there would be none until he was in the water. Then he might catch a split-second glimpse of two shotgun barrels flashing in the sunlight just before they exploded, too late for any man to draw and shoot.

“C’mon, you yellow bastard,” Pickett whispered, resting his head against a rock, his shotgun held loosely in his left fist with both hammers cocked… he didn’t want the click of metal to alert Jensen just before he killed him.

He wondered what was keeping Jensen. According to what the Apache told Jessie, they should be nearing the river by now. He took a bite of jerky and washed it down with tequila. “Hard on a man’s nerves, all this waitin’.”

He let his gaze wander upriver, then downstream, examining every rock and tree, when suddenly he saw a shadow dart among the cottonwood trunks.

“It’s him,” Pickett hissed, whirling around to hide himself behind the boulder. Jensen wasn’t as clever as Jessie thought. Pickett was sure what he had seen was the outline of a man coming upstream, already on the north side of the river.

He left his horse somewhere, Pickett thought, so he’d make less noise. Peering cautiously around the rock, he aimed his ten-gauge and drew his Peacemaker, ready for anything, every muscle in his body tensed.

He saw the movement again and almost fired at it, until he caught himself. “Not till you’re closer, you bastard,” he whispered as his grip relaxed on his pistol. Pickett wanted to shred the Colorado cowboy with his scattergun if he could.

Now nothing moved, and only the quiet gurgle of the river passing over stones reached his ears. The second time he saw Jensen he’d been closer, yet not quite close enough for Betsy to do her best work.

“C’mon, turkey,” Pickett mouthed silently, as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He could almost taste the moment when he would kill Jensen, a thickening of his tongue with a slightly sweet taste on the tip. He found himself longing for the sight of a bullet-torn body oozing blood from hundreds of pellet wounds, and he imagined the coppery smell of Jensen’s blood. He hoped the first twin charges didn’t kill Jensen instantly… It would be far better to stand over him, to see the fear and pain in his eyes just before another shotgun blast tore his head to pieces.

More waiting made him more impatient, until a heavier gust of wind blew down the river, rippling its waters, and at the same time Jensen moved again, darting around the base of a cottonwood, rushing toward him.

Pickett straightened up quickly and fired both barrels of the Greener, jolted by twin explosions that deafened him briefly. He saw the shadow swirl, twisting when a wall of lead struck.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch!” Pickett cried as he took a step away from the rock, holstering his pistol to reload the ten-gauge for a sure kill when he reached Jensen.

“Not quite,” an even voice said behind him.

Pickett froze, twisting his head to look over his shoulder. He saw a man standing beside a rock pile less than twenty yards away. Pickett’s mouth fell open.

“You shot a blanket draped over a limb,” the man added, an evil grin widening his lips. “But the blanket does belong to me. I’m Smoke Jensen. I reckon you’ve been waitin’ here a long time to ambush me.”

Pickett only had one shell in the Greener, and its breech was open. His Peacemaker was holstered. “How’d you get behind me?” Pickett asked, buying time until he could think of a way to get at his pistol without being shot. Both of Jensen’s pistols were holstered… He carried a Winchester, muzzle aimed down at the ground.

“To tell the truth, it was mighty easy. I suppose you’re the feller named Bill Pickett, on account of that short shotgun. We were told you fancied yourself a man-killer. So far, the only thing you’ve shot holes in was a blanket”

“You’re gonna shoot me in the back, ain’t you?” Pickett asked.

“My conscience might bother me, so I’m gonna let you turn around and reach for that Colt. I’ll give you plenty of time.”

“You’re lyin’,” Pickett replied. “You’ll kill me soon as I move”

Jensen nodded. “I’m gonna kill you either way, but if you want a chance to see how good you are with that six-gun, make a move for it. But do it quick, or I’ll just kill you now an’ be on my way. That shotgun blast is liable to bring Evans and his men any minute.”

Pickett felt he had no selection. He dropped Betsy to the ground and made a slow, deliberate turn, expecting Jensen to draw a pistol before he could square himself. To his surprise, Jensen remained motionless until Pickett had his feet spread slighdy apart and his right hand hovering above his Peacemaker.

“Reach for it,” Jensen said, as calm as could be.

Pickett didn’t wait for a second invitation. His hand went clawing for his gun.

There was a flash of gun metal in sunlight, then a booming noise. Thirty-nine

Jessie and Billy Morton were the first to scramble aboard their horses when they heard gunshots, with the others mounting right behind them.

“That was Pickett’s shotgun!” Jessie cried, spurring his horse to cover the half mile down to the river crossing as rapidly as he could. “Pickett got the son of a bitch!”

Billy galloped up beside him. “I ain’t gonna believe it till I see it!” he shouted back over the clatter of iron horseshoes on rock.

Jessie drew his pistol, just in case, and as if it were a signal, every member of his gang was fisting guns. Riding as hard as they could, they covered the distance in only a few minutes, until Jessie reined to a halt on a knob above the river.

“Yonder he is,” Jessie said, as soon as the others came to a stop alongside him. “Pickett wrapped his body in a blanket so’s we can bury him.”

Billy kept looking up and down the river. “Where the hell is Pickett? I don’t see him nowhere.”

Jose Vasquez pointed to a distant horseman on a ridge on the far side of the crossing. The figure appeared to be watching them.

“ Quien es ? Who is that?” Vasquez asked.

“Probably just one of Jensen’s boys,” Jessie answered. “I’m ridin’ down to have a look. You can see Jensen’s dead from here, ’cause he ain’t moving, all wrapped up in that blanket like he is.”

Tom said, “I ain’t all that convinced it’s Jensen.”

Jessie ignored the remark and rode his horse off the knob to reach the river. But as he got closer, he felt something was wrong. He heard the others following him, but at a slower gait.

He rode up to the blanket-clad body and jumped down, in a hurry to set eyes on Jensen’s corpse. He knelt and pulled back the dark blue blanket, riddled with pellet holes, and what he saw made him draw in a quick breath.

“It’s Pickett,” Billy Morton observed without leaving the back of his horse.

Jessie’s hand, the one holding the blanket, began to shake. He dropped the woolen cloth quickly and stood up, gazing at the mounted figure far across the river. “That is Jensen,” he said with a dry mouth.

“He’s prob’ly laughin’ at us,” Tom said. “One thing’s for damn sure—he’s gotta be the toughest hombre I ever ran across, an’ if Bill Pickett was still alive, he’d be sayin’ the same damn thing. You can count me out of this, Jessie. I’m pulling stakes while I still can.”

“That goes fer me too,” Billy said, looking up at the man watching them from the ridge. “I knowed when he killed twelve of us back in that draw there was somethin’ about him that damn near wasn’t human. If you’re smart, Jessie, you’ll let that feller go wherever the hell he aims to go with his cows.”