War Of The Mountain Man

While Smoke respected the law, he was also well aware that there were hard limits placed upon it when dealing with the lawless. As a private citizen, he had shed himself of those limits. Now he could meet Max Huggins and Red Malone on an equal footing.

Smoke bought supplies at Marbly’s General Store—including a sack of dynamite—and made ready to hit the trail. In addition to his .44 Winchester, he carried a Sharps .56 in another saddle boot. Two days after the election, Smoke kissed Sally good-bye and swung into the saddle. Star was ready to go; the big black was bred for the trails and was growing impatient with all this inactivity.

“I won’t ask how long you’ll be gone,” Sally said.

“Two or three days this time around. I’ll be back in time to see the bank open.”

He headed north, toward Hell’s Creek, to see what mischief he could get into. He had heard rumors that Big Max Huggins thought himself to be unbeatable as a bare-knuckle fighter. Smoke knew that the man could be formidable; just his size would make him dangerous. But Smoke also knew that many big men rarely knew much about the finesse of fighting, depending mostly on their strength and bulk to overwhelm their opponents.

The trick would be to catch Big Max by himself. Smoke didn’t trust anyone left in Hell’s Creek not to shoot him after he whipped Max—and he knew he could whip him. He’d take some cuts and bruises doing so, for Max was a huge and powerful man. But Smoke had whipped men just as big and just as tough; men who knew something about boxing.

Smoke stayed off the road, keeping to the mountain trails, enjoying the aloneness of it all. He rested and ate an early lunch above a peaceful valley, exploding with summer colors. Deer fed below him, and once he spotted a grizzly ambling along, eating berries and overturning logs, looking for grubs. Squirrels chattered and birds sang their joyful songs all around him.

Then suddenly it all stopped and the timber fell as silent as a tomb. The deer below him raced away and the grizzly reared up on his hind legs, testing the air. The bear dropped down to all fours and skedaddled back into the timber.

Smoke had picked a very secure position to noon, with Star well hidden. He did not move; movement would attract attention faster than noise.

Soon the horsemen came into view, about a dozen of them, riding through the valley. Smoke moved then, getting his field glasses out of the saddlebags and focusing in on the men, being careful not to let the sun glint off the lenses.

He knew some of them—or had seen them before. They were hired guns—hired by Max Huggins. The men were riding heavily armed, carrying their rifles across the saddle horns. Smoke could see where many of them had shoved extra six-shooters behind their belts.

The route they were taking would lead them straight to the farm complex of Brown and Gatewood and the others. Those families had taken enough grief from Huggins and Red Malone and their ilk, Smoke thought, returning to Star and stowing the binoculars.

He decided he’d trail along behind the hired guns and add a little spice to their lives as soon as he was sure what they were up to.

Smoke decided not to wait when he saw the men reach into their back pockets and pull out hoods. They reined up and slipped the hoods over their faces.

They were about three miles from the farm complex. No man elects to wear a hood over his face unless he’s up to no good; but still Smoke held his fire. He was looking down at a pack of trash, that he knew. But so far they had done nothing wrong.

He left them, riding higher into the timber and getting ahead of the gunslingers. On a ridge overlooking the valley where Brown and the others were rebuilding, Smoke swung down from the saddle and shucked the Sharps .56 from its boot. He got into position and waited.

He didn’t have long to wait. The raiders came at a gallop, riding hard and heading straight for Brown’s farm, guns at hand.

Smoke leveled the Sharps and blew one outlaw from the saddle, the big slug taking the man in the chest and flinging him off his horse, dead as he hit the ground.

Brown, his wife, and their two sons had been working with guns close by. The four of them, upon hearing the booming of the .56, dropped their hammers and shovels and grabbed their rifles, getting behind cover. They emptied four saddles during the first charge, and that broke the attack off before it could get started. The outlaws turned around and headed back north. They had lost five out of twelve, and that had not been in their plans.

They were about to lose more.

They headed straight for Smoke’s position, at a hard gallop. Smoke leveled the S harps, sighted in, and squeezed the trigger. Another hooded man screamed and fell from the saddle, one arm hanging useless by his side, shattered by the heavy .56 caliber slug. He stood up and Smoke finished him.