War Of The Mountain Man

Ted Mercer stood facing Smoke Jensen. The outlaw felt a coldness take hold of him. His Colt was in his hand, but he was holding it by his side. Could Jensen beat him? He didn’t know. He really didn’t want to find out.

“You can drop that iron and walk,” Smoke told him. “Change your life. It’s up to you.”

“You’re only sayin’ that ’cause you know you can’t beat this.”

“You’re wrong, Ted.”

“Your guns are in leather!”

“Drop it and walk, man. Don’t be a fool.”

“I think I’ll just kill you, Jensen.”Ted’s hand jerked up. He felt a dull shock hit him in the belly, another hammerlike blow beat at his chest. Impossible! he thought. No man is that fast. No man is ...

Smoke walked up and looked down at the dead outlaw. “I gave you a chance,” he said.

Fires had been started by the raiders, but they had been quickly put out by the ladies of the bucket brigades. The plans of the outlaws were put out as quickly as the flames. Lew Brooks jumped his horse over the body of a friend and went charging between buildings. Judge Garrison stepped out and gave the outlaw a good dose of frontier justice, not from a law book but from a .44. Lew hit the ground, rolled over, and came up with a .45 in his hand. Judge Garrison imposed the death sentence on the man, then calmly reloaded and walked up the alleyway.

Jake Stringer knew that John Steele was down and dead, along with several other Lightning men. He didn’t know where Red Malone was. He tried to calm a badly spooked horse and climb into the saddle. But the horse was having none of that. The animal jumped away and left Jake on foot.

“Damn that hammerhead!” Jake swore. “I ought to shoot it.”

“Why not try me?” Jim Dagonne said.

Jake turned. Jim’s guns were in leather, as were his own. A smile creased his lips. “I enjoyed whuppin’ you with my fists, Jim. Now I’m gonna enjoy killin’ you.”

Jim was no fast gunhand, but he was a dead shot. Jake cleared leather first and his shot went into the dirt at Jim’s boots. Jim plugged the man just above the belt buckle. Jake sat down on the ground and started hollering.

Jim walked to him. He could see where the slug had exited out the man’s back, right through the kidney. “You ain’t gonna make it, Jake. You got anyone you want me to write?”

“I didn’t even know you could write,” Jake said, then fell over on his face and closed his eyes.

Ella Mae, Tom Johnson’s wife, was struggling with a man who had less than honorable intentions on his mind. He ripped her bodice open and stared hungrily at her flesh. Momentarily free, Ella Mae ran to the kitchen, jerked up the coffeepot from the stove, and threw the boiling contents into the man’s face.

The outlaw screamed and went lurching and staggering through the living room, finding his way out the front door, his face seared from the boiling coffee. He stumbled out into the street and was run down by another wounded outlaw, trying to get out of the death trap named Barlow. The burned outlaw fell under the hooves and lay still.

Clark Hall made the bank and hurled himself through the door. He came up on his boots just in time to face several men with shotguns. He had time to say one word: “No!”

Three sawed-off shotguns roared, and Clark Hall was literally torn out of his boots and thrown out into the street.

The shooting stopped. An eerie silence fell over the town. Smoke stepped out into the street, the Remington Frontier .44’s in his hands. The moaning of the wounded drifted to him.

Judge Garrison took charge. “Gather up the wounded, and well patch them up as best we can and then try them. We were forced to use frontier justice to stop this, but there’ll be no unauthorized hangings. From now on we go by the book.”

Ralph from the saloon was dead. Shot through the head. Toby at the hotel had taken a slug through his shoulder. Several other citizens were wounded, but Ralph was the only fatality. The streets and alleys of the town were littered with dead and wounded. Guns lay everywhere one looked and riderless horses milled around, not knowing what to do or where to go.

Henry Draper came out of his office at the newspaper, wearing two huge Dragoons belted around his waist. That would account for some of the booming sounds Smoke had heard and also some of the hideous wounds he’d seen. Draper set up his camera and began preparing for shots of the carnage. This was great stuff. The newspapers back east would eat it up.

Tom Johnson had wandered the main street, counting the dead and wounded. “Red Malone’s not here,” he said, walking up to Smoke and a group of others.

“How about his men?” Sal asked.

“Most of them are dead. I saw two of them riding out north early on. Looked like they were clearing the country.”

“You have enough to do here for three men, Sal,” Smoke said. “Besides, this is personal between me and Red. I’ll get him. And I’ll bring him in alive if I can.”

“You better find him before Joe Walsh does,” Jim said. “Joe told him years ago that if he ever caught him without his private army with him, he’d kill him.”