William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

Buell Ormsley scratched at his fringe of ginger hair that surrounded his bald crown. “Not this lad. My momma never raised no idiots.”

“She come mighty close,” Moose Redaker jibed. “Yep, I reckon we’d do best to jist shoot him in the back and haul his body up north, Montana way.”

Buell Ormsley squeezed his bulbous nose. “Won’t he get to stinkin’ a lot, we do that?” He had a valid point.

In his usual manner, Moose had an answer. “Not if we go by train and ice him down.”

Abe Voss rubbed his gloved hands together. “Then, let’s get at it.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry. We gotta do up a plan first.”

“What about the boy?” Gabe Tucker inquired.

“Kill him an’ leave him for the buzzards,” advised Moose.

* * *

Ian MacGreggor had dropped back to tighten a loose cinch and relieve a swollen bladder. His horse stood stubbornly sideways in the trail as he tried to mount it. When he swung aboard, he got a quick glimpse of four grim-faced men riding toward him at a fast pace. Swiftly, he turned the animal’s head and put spurs to its flanks. Behind him, the evil quartet put their mounts into a gallop. Rapid reaction by Moose Redaker prevented Abe Voss from firing a shot at the boy and revealing their presence for certain. As it happened, they might as well have shot anyway.

When Mac came within hailing distance of Smoke, he called out a warning. “Look out, Smoke. Four hard-looking guys headed our way.” Then he reigned smartly to the side and disappeared behind a large boulder.

Redaker and his crew of ne’er-do-well bounty hunters crested a rise that had separated them from their quarry and found the boy gone from sight. The four of them faced a lone Smoke Jensen. Had their combined intelligence been anywhere near average, that fact might have given them more than a little pause to consider. Since it was not, they blundered on, drawing their six-guns as they came. Smoke waited patiently. The moment the first eager lout came within range, Smoke cut him down with a round from his Winchester Express rifle.

Abe Voss flew from the saddle, while still far out of revolver range. His companions could only curse. The deadly accurate rifle spoke again and a 500 grain .45 slug sped downrange. Moose Redaker had accurately gauged Smoke Jensen’s intentions and ducked low at the precise moment. A fraction of a second later, the bullet cracked past in the space formerly occupied by his head. The distance had decreased, which lent encouragement to the bounty hunters. Gabe Tucker jinked to the left and rode into the meadow to that side. He sought to flank Smoke Jensen and get in a good shot. He made it half the distance to his goal when an invisible fist slammed into his right side and knocked him out of the saddle. He hit in a shower of broken turf and rolled to a halt faced away from Smoke Jensen. The burning pain began to fade to the numbness of shock.

On the other side of Moose Redaker, Buell Ormsley angled toward the cluster of boulders. He watched as Smoke Jensen swung the muzzle of the Winchester toward Moose Redaker. When the express rifle bucked in Smoke’s grip, Buell swung the nose of his mount back toward the last mountain man and let fly with two fast rounds.

At first, he thought he had hit his target. Smoke Jensen reared back in his saddle and then bent forward. With a start, Buell realized that Smoke had merely put the rifle back in its scabbard. Jensen came up with a six-gun that looked right at him. A wild cry of denial and fright blew from Buell Ormsley’s thick lips as Smoke Jensen fired.

At a range of some thirty feet, the bullet had not the power to kill, but it did hurt like hell when it punched through the leather vest Ormsley wore and broke a rib. Reflex action sent him out of the saddle and onto the ground. He landed hard. More pain shot up his spine when his rump made contact with the soil. Temporarily out of the fight, he fought a wave of dizziness. Dimly he saw Moose Redaker close within killing distance of Smoke Jensen.

Smoke remained calm as he waited out his opponent. The only one still astride a horse, the scruffy-looking hill trash presented the only challenge Smoke could see. Both men fired at the same time, and their slugs missed. Smoke’s by so narrow a margin that a hot line burned along the rib cage of Moose Redaker. Moose yowled and fired again. The slug punched through the side panel of Smoke’s vest. That brought an instant response.

Another .45 round spat from the Peacemaker in Smoke’s hand. This one struck Moose in the chest with stunning force. Redaker reeled in the saddle and tried to put his own six-gun into action. A dark red curtain seemed to descend behind his eyes, and the world grew hazy. At last he triggered his Smith American. The .44 slug screamed off a rock and disappeared in the direction of Taos. Then the ground seemed to leap up and smack Moose in the face. He died wondering how that could happen.

Buell Ormsley scooted over the ground toward his dropped six-gun. He had quickly discovered that he had sprained an ankle in his fall from the horse. Buell reached the weapon while Smoke scanned the other three for any sign of continued resistance. Carefully he raised it, and sighted in on the broad back of Smoke Jensen. He eared back the hammer of the Merwin and Hulbert .44 and sighted again. Buell heard the beginning of a loud report from a revolver close by an instant before an intense light washed through his brain, as the off side of his skull flew apart in gory shards.

Ian MacGreggor rode out onto the trail, smoke still curling from the barrel of the old Schoffield Smith .44 in his left hand. “He was gonna back-shoot you, Smoke.”

Smoke masked his surprise and produced a grateful grin. “You done good, Mac. Saved my life, that’s for sure. I’m beholdin’ to you.”

With sincere modesty, Mac made small of it. “You’d a done the same for me.”

“Thanks all the same. I wonder if it’s worth the effort to take this trash along and see if there’s a bounty on any of them?”

“D’you think there might be?” Mac had not considered such a possibility.

“Never know.” Smoke searched the body of Moose Redaker and found the aged, out-of-date posters depicting his own face. Also a letter signed six years earlier giving a commission to one Albert Redaker to seek out wanted miscreants under the auspice of the sheriff of Denton County, Texas. “Still don’t mean they’re free of any head money.”

“I—ah—if it’s all the same, I’d just as soon not have them along for company.” Smoke noticed that Mac looked a little gray-green around the mouth.

“First time you killed a man?”

“First time I ever shot at one,” Mac admitted.

“Take it from me, Mac, it don’t get any easier. Only your reaction to it changes. We’d best cover them with rocks and mark ’em so the nearest law can find them.”

* * *

Back at the Sugarloaf, little Seth Gittings, Mary-Beth’s middle boy, had become a particular burden for Sally Jensen. Every bit as much a brat as his elder brother, he chose this afternoon to leave off the severe biting of his fingernails long enough to bite Bobby. His little jaws proved exceptionally strong as he crunched down on Bobby’s left forearm. Bobby instantly felt a jolt of hot pain run up his arm and spread in his chest. He wanted to cry out, to even shed a few tears of agony. Yet he shut his mind to such childish things and sought to remedy the situation.

His hard right fist cracked into the side of his tormentor’s head. Seth let go with a yowl and an instant flood of tears. “Ow! Owie! Billy, Billy, he hit me. He hit me,” quickly followed.

Bobby immediately pursued his advantage. Chin on his chest, shoulders rolled like Smoke had shown him, he waded in. Fast, solid rights and lefts rained on the chest and exposed belly of Seth Gittings. The ten-year-old backpedaled and flailed uselessly with his stubby arms. Bobby changed his target and felt a flood of satisfaction as blood gushed from Seth’s nose. He continued to whale away on Seth until Billy arrived. At once the twelve-year-old took up for his brother and joined the fray in the form of an attack on Bobby Jensen’s turned back.