War Of The Mountain Man

Smoke moved through the thick underbrush and damp grass like a wraith. His clothing was of earth tones, blending in with his surroundings. From his high-up vantage point, Smoke had seen the second fire. That would be where Max and Sally were camped. Max had chosen to make his stand—if that’s what he had in mind—on the flat of a sheer drop-off, maybe a thousand feet above where his two remaining gunmen were camped, waiting for Smoke Jensen.

“Let us not disappoint you, gentlemen,” Smoke muttered. “I do hate to keep people waiting.”

“No word from any of them we left behind,” Val Singer said to Alex Bell. “That means that Jensen got them.”

Bell said nothing for a moment. He sipped his coffee, warming his hands on the tin cup. He was cold, he was uncomfortable, and he was scared. All along the way up into this godforsaken country, they had left good men behind them; men left there to take care of Smoke Jensen. But Jensen had taken care of them, it seemed. The man was a devil. Straight out of hell. Had to be.

“Let’s get out of here, Val,” he finally spoke. “To hell with Max and the woman. Let’s just ride.”

“It’s too late,” Val said, the words soft.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Jensen’s here.”

Alex looked wildly around him. He could see nothing, only the seemingly impenetrable tangle of brush that was all around them. “I don’t see nothin’. I don’t hear nothin’.”

“No,” the gunfighter said, standing up and working his guns in and out of leather. “You wouldn’t with Jensen. But he’s here.”

Alex stood up, loosening his guns. “You’re beginning to spook me, Val.”

“We shoulda left when Jensen showed up. We shoulda just pulled out and got gone. Now it’s too late.”

“That’s right, Val,” the voice came from the underbrush. “Now it’s too late.”

Alex Bell jerked iron and emptied one gun into the thick brush.

Laughter was his reply.

“Come out here and fight, damn you!” Alex screamed.

A .44 slug from a Winchester doubled him over, the slug taking him just above the belt buckle. The second slug turned him around and dropped him to the cold ground. His gun fell from numbed fingers.

Val Singer had not moved. He stood tall, his right hand close to the butt of his Colt. He waited.

Alex Bell moaned on the ground. Val ignored him.

Smoke stepped out of the brush. He carried the rifle in his left hand, his right hand by his side.

Val said, “I guess we do it now, don’t we, Smoke?”

“I reckon.”

“No point in my sayin’ I’d just ride on out and leave you be?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a hard man, Smoke.”

“Yep.”

Val cussed him.

Smoke waited, tall and tough and cold-eyed.

Val jerked iron and Smoke shot him twice in the belly, once with his Colt and once with the .44 rifle. Smoke walked to the fire and poured a cup of coffee. He made a sandwich out of the nearly burned bacon and some bread wrapped in a cloth. He cut his eyes to Val Singer.

“We all make mistakes,” the gun-for-hire said, his eyes pain-filled as he lay on the ground, both hands holding his punctured belly.

“Indeed you did.”

“Gimme some coffee, Smoke.”

“You’re gut-shot. Worse thing in the world for you is liquid.”

Val laughed bitterly. “I’m a good two hundred miles from a doctor. You think I don’t know I’ve had it?”

Smoke poured Val a cup of the strong brew and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” Val said. He took a sip of the brew and then screamed as the pain rose in waves.

To the west and above them, Sally had been working for several hours, rubbing the rawhide that bound her wrists against a rock. She felt the rawhide part and then, keeping her hands behind her, began to work circulation back into her hands.

Max turned to look at her. His face was a ruin. Smoke had destroyed the man’s handsome looks with his fists. Madness shone in his eyes; madness combined with a burning hatred for Smoke Jensen.

“You heard the shots?”

“Yes.”

“I’m next.”

“I’m sure.”

Max tried to smile. The broken bones in his face twisted his smile into a grimace. “I’ve got about an hour before Jensen can work his way up here. So I’ll have you and then throw you off this cliff.”

“I’m cold,” Sally said. “May I scoot closer to the fire?”

“May I?” Max said mockingly. “My, how proper. Yes, Sally, you may.”

Sally scooted to the fire’s edge. Max turned his back to her, looking down into the valley below. Sally reached around and quickly untied the rawhide that bound her ankles, but left the rawhide looped around her boots.

Alex Bell sighed once and then died.

“Well, that’s the end of it,” Val managed to say, his voice thick with pain. “That’s the last one of us‘ceptin’ Max. And I ’spect you’ll nail him, too. You gonna bury us, Smoke?”

“Nope.” Smoke ate his sandwich and sipped his coffee.

“You just gonna leave us for the buzzards and the bears and the wolves?” The outlaw could not believe that Smoke really meant that.

“Yep.”

“That ain’t decent!”

“You’re not a decent person, Singer. There is nothing. decent about you.”

“I was drove to a life of crime!”