War Of The Mountain Man

“You’d be surprised,” Smoke said.

Smoke walked the town, inspecting each water barrel—and there were many. He checked to see if the buckets were ready in case of fire. They were. He checked each store that was to house fighters. They were ready and willing, even if many of them were scared. Mrs. Marbly, a very formidable-sized lady, had found herself a pair of men’s overalls, and when she bent over, she looked like the rear end of a stagecoach. But she handled the double-barreled shotgun like she knew what she was doing. Smoke concluded that he wouldn’t want to mess with her.

Pete was still in shock after seeing Mrs. Marbly in men’s overalls, bent over.

“Close your mouth, Pete,” Smoke told him. “Before you suck in a fly.”

Jim was stationed two miles out of town, on a ridge, a fast horse tied nearby. As soon as he spotted the dust of the raiders, he was to come hightailing it back into town and give the warning.

Smoke walked to the north end of the town and leaned up against a hitchrail. He rolled him a cigarette and lit up, waiting for the action to start.

He looked back up the wide street. It was void of any kind of life. The horses were stabled safely and the children’s pets were in the house, out of harm’s way.

Smoke watched as a water wagon rolled down the street, then back up, watering the wide street to keep down the dust. He clicked open his watch: eight-thirty. He walked on down the street, coming to a nearly collapsed old building; a relic of a business of some sort that had failed. This was the last building on either side of the street. Smoke stepped up on the porch and pushed open the door. Rusty hinges howled in protest. He stepped inside and looked in both rooms of the structure. He tried the back door, working it several times to make certain he could exit that way. There was not a windowpane intact in any frame, so he did not have to worry about being cut by flying glass. He sat down on the dusty floor and waited.

At eight-forty-five, Jim came fogging into town from his post. Smoke heard him yell, “Here they come, folks. And there’s plenty to go around.” He rode into the livery stable and disappeared.

Smoke eared back the hammers on the sawed-off and knelt by the window. Moments later, he could feel the vibration through the floor, the faint thunder of hundreds of hooves striking the ground.

As the pack of outlaws drew closer, Smoke stared in amazement. Robert was leading the bunch. He wore a pith helmet, the leather strap tied under his chin, and was waving a sword. God knows where he had found either article in Hell’s Creek.

The raiders, more than a hundred strong, thundered into town. Smoke let Robert and a few behind him gallop past, then he gave both barrels of the sawed-off to the outlaws.

The hand-loaded charge of nails and buckshot cleared a bloody path in the middle of the outlaw horde. Smoke dropped the shotgun and jerked out his Colts, cocking and firing as fast as he could; deadly rolling thunder erupted from the small collapsing building on the edge of town. Horses began milling around, confused and frightened and riderless. Bodies lay in the street.

A wounded outlaw, his hands filled with guns, staggered up on the porch. He spotted Smoke and leveled his guns. Smoke gave him two .44 slugs in the chest and the man’s days of lawlessness were over.

Smoke quickly reloaded his Colts, shoved fresh shells into the express gun, and ran out the back door, turning to his right.

“Red and his bunch are attacking from the south!” he heard the faint shout over the roar of battle.

Smoke ducked into the space between a home and a business and ran to the street. A hatless and bearded man stepped off the path and turned to face Smoke. Smoke pulled the trigger of the sawed-off, and the force of the charge lifted the outlaw off his boots and knocked him out into the street. Smoke ran to the edge of the street and gave the other barrel to a cursing raider. Blood smeared his saddle and the man hit the street, dead.

Smoke filled both hands with Colts and began emptying saddles. From the sounds of shotgun fire coming from the bank building, and the number of bodies littering the street in front of the bank, the Easterners were having a duck shoot and doing a damn fine job of holding their own.

Smoke stepped back and reloaded the pistols and the shotgun.

“Forward, men!” he heard Robert shout, the cry coming from behind him. “Slay the Philistines.”