War Of The Mountain Man

The men rode down from the high country, the temperature warming as they descended from the high-up into a valley. Wildflowers had burst forth, coloring the landscape with brilliant summer hues.

Smoke was going to add some more color to the scenery: blood-red.

The two men left their horses safe within boulders and timber and, with their rifles, got into place. They were about fifty yards above the road. This was not the stage road, but an offshoot that led to and stopped at Malone’s ranch, some miles farther on. They were on Lightning range.

Sal pointed that out.

“Good,” Smoke replied. “Maybe they’ll hear the shots and come to lend their buddies a hand. We’ll lessen the odds against the town if they do.”

Sal took that time to point out that should that occur, the two of them would be outnumbered something like forty to one.

Smoke grinned and patted the bulging saddlebags he’d taken from behind his saddle. “Have faith, Sal. If worse comes to worse, well blast our way out.”

“There ain’t a nerve in your body, is there, Smoke?”

“Oh, I’ve known fear, Sal.” Smoke thought for a moment, then smiled. “Back in ’69, I think it was.”

Both men laughed, then sobered as the outlaws came into view, riding around a curve in the road, still too far away for accurate shooting.

“Wish we had brung one of them fancy rifles you took from them foreigners,” Sal said. “We’d a sure tried it out.”

Smoke eared back the hammer on his Winchester. “They’ll be in range in about a minute. I’ll take the left side, you take the right.”

“Good,” Sal said flatly. “I can recognize Ernie’s horse from here. Ain’t neither one of them worth a damn for anything.”

“Here we go, Sal.”

The men lifted the rifles to their shoulders, sighted in, took up slack on the triggers, and emptied two saddles.

The outlaws appeared confused as their horses reared and bucked at the gunfire and the sudden smell of blood. Instead of turning left or right, or retreating, the outlaws put the spurt to the animals’ flanks and came forward.

“Like shootin’ clay pigeons standin’ still,” Sal muttered, and emptied another saddle.

Smoke grabbed several taped-together sticks of dynamite from the open saddlebag, lit the fuse, and tossed it down the hill. The charge landed just above the road and blew, sending small rocks hurling through the air like deadly missiles.

Through the cloud of dust raised by the dynamite, Smoke and Sal could see a half-dozen more riderless horses, the outlaws on the ground, some of them writhing in agony with hideous head wounds and broken limbs, the others lying very still, their skulls crushed by the flying rocks.

Smoke and Sal started tossing the lead around. The dozen or so outlaws left in the saddle decided it was way past time to clear out. They put the spurs to their horses and were gone, fogging it to Red’s ranch.

Smoke and Sal mounted up and rode down into the carnage, to see if anything could be salvaged. Sal rounded up the outlaws’ horses while Smoke stood among the dead and wounded, making certain no one summoned up the courage to try a shot at either one of them.

They had just finished tying the dead across their saddles and securing the wounded on their horses when Red Malone and his crew thundered up, raising an unnecessary cloud of dust.

“What the hell are you doin’ on my range, Jensen?” the man yelled.

“I’m a deputy sheriff of this county, Red,” Smoke calmly told him. “And I’m carrying out my duties as such. You interfere and I’ll put your butt in jail.”

Sal had worked around; he now faced Red, a rifle pointed at the rancher’s chest. The action did not escape Red, and he knew if trouble started, he would be the first one dead.

But he wouldn‘t, couldn’t, leave it alone. “You got a warrant for the arrest of these men, Jensen?”

“I saw them attack the town of Barlow, Red. Me and several hundred other people. Those alive are going back to stand trial. Now back off.”

All looked up as the sound of hooves pounding against the earth reached them. Twenty men from the town reined up, heavily armed, among them Joe Walsh and a half dozen of his hands.

“The town’s secure, Smoke,” Benson said. “We thought we’d ride out and give you a hand.”

“It’s appreciated. You men start escorting these bums back to town.”Smoke and Sal swung into the saddle. Smoke looked at Red. “Their trial will begin in a couple of days. You and your men are still banned from the town. Keep that in mind, Red.”

“Someday, Jensen,” Red warned, his voice thick with anger. “Someday.”

“Anytime, Red. Just anytime at all.” Smoke lifted the reins and rode away.

The funeral of Aggie Feckles was an emotional, gut-wrenching time for all. Midway through the ordeal, Martha collapsed and had to be carried back to the doctor’s office. Young Elias Brown had a very difficult time fighting back his tears. Just as the earth was being shoveled into the hole, Smoke cut his eyes and looked toward the north. Plumes of smoke were billowing into the sky.

“Max is burning you men out!”he called to Brown and his friends. “Let’s ride.”