Bloodshed of the Mountain Man Read online

  “While I’m getting everything off my chest, Cal, I may as well tell you the whole story. I took a stagecoach from Fort Laramie, and on the coach I met a woman who was very intuitive. Well, now that I think back on it, she didn’t have to be all that intuitive. I was crying, after all, and she saw that I was recovering from a black eye.

  “She was very nice to me, and I found myself telling her my story. It turns out that she was a madam, and when she offered me a job, I took it. I figured why not? I had already debased myself.

  “I stayed with her for just under a year; then she closed up her house, took her money, and went back to Chicago. That’s when I started working for Bagby, and that’s where I was when Mr. Jensen brought you into the saloon.

  “I’m so ashamed of myself. I have made such a mess of my life.”

  “You can’t say that,” Cal said. “You say you have made a mess of your life, as if your life is almost over. You are just starting, and you were in the right place at the right time for me. Smoke and Dr. Urban have both told me I wouldn’t even be alive if not for you.”

  Cal chuckled. “Unless you think saving my life wasn’t all that important.”

  This time it was Julia who lifted Cal’s hand to her lips. She kissed it.

  “Cal, saving your life is the most important thing I have ever done.”

  “Then look at it this way,” Cal said. “Everything you have ever done in your life . . . marrying that son of a bitch, meeting that madam on the stage . . . and especially working as a bar girl in that saloon, was done just so you would be there in the right place and at the right time, exactly when I needed you.”

  “Why, Cal, you are a fatalist.”

  “When you live the life I’ve lived, for me to be here now, working for the greatest people in the world and sitting here in the swing with the greatest woman in the world, yeah, how could I be anything but a fatalist?”

  Cal pulled Julia to him and kissed her deeply. She offered no resistance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Brimstone

  “We’ll give it one more week,” Smoke said to Hardegree. “If Hannibal doesn’t try it within a week, I don’t think he’s going to.”

  “You may be right, but I think we’ll keep someone posted in the church belfry for at least another month,” Hardegree said.

  “Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” Smoke said.

  “But, you have to wonder how many men Hannibal has left. Four have been killed here . . . eight, if those last four were Ghost Riders . . . and how many at Brown Spur?”

  “Five,” Smoke said.

  “Plus the two you and Cal killed out at the Condon ranch, remember,” Pearlie added.

  “And one in Denver,” Smoke said.

  Hardegree laughed. “Damn, Smoke, maybe they don’t have enough people left to come after our bank.”

  Ten Strike

  “The British General Wellington was a brilliant tactician,” Hannibal told his assembled men. “He achieved victory by not letting his enemy know how many men he had or from which direction they would come. It was often his plan to allow the enemy to think they are winning against an inferior force, then to suddenly strike them with a much stronger force. This would leave the enemy disoriented and totally unable to mount any sort of counterattack.

  “That is exactly the tactic we will use against Brimstone.”

  Hannibal had drawn a map of the objective. “I have studied the area very closely. Here, to the south of the town, there is a reverse slope. Because of that reverse slope I gauge that we can advance to this point without being seen, provided we walk our horses for the last two or three hundred yards.

  “At five minutes before nine, Rexwell, you will make a feint with four men from the north, riding in and shooting at targets of opportunity, just as we did in Laurette.

  “But proceed no farther into the town than the end of the private quarters, then turn and retreat. When you retreat, have every gun fire three shots, with one second between the shots. That way we will be able to differentiate those shots from the general shooting that will, no doubt, be taking place.

  “At that time, the rest of us will come in from the South, engaging anyone and everyone we see. By then any defense the town will have mounted will have been committed to holding off the attack from the north. We shall have free run to the bank, and once there, we will proceed exactly as we did in Laurette.”

  “But, they’ll have a lookout in the bell tower, which is the highest place in town,” Rexwell said. “Even if you walk your horses up that hill, there’s a chance they will see you. And they will for certain see us as we approach.”

  “There won’t be anyone in the bell tower,” Hannibal said.

  “Yes, there will be. I heard them talking about it.”

  Hannibal smiled. “Trust me, Mr. Rexwell. There won’t be anyone in the bell tower.”

  It was still a predawn darkness when Taylor climbed into the bell tower of the church the next morning. Hannibal had told him that there probably wouldn’t be anyone there at this hour.

  “What if there is someone there?” Taylor had asked Hannibal, when Hannibal gave him the assignment.

  “If there is someone there, he will, no doubt, think that you are coming, either to his relief or to check on him. That will give you the advantage of surprise, and you can kill him. But do it quietly. We don’t want any gunfire until it is time.”

  Taylor reached the belfry after a short climb and found it to be empty. Hannibal was right; they weren’t expecting anyone to come in the middle of the night.

  He stuffed a wad of twist tobacco into his mouth and began chewing, and as he leaned over the half walls of the belfry, he was cooled by a gentle breeze.

  From one of the houses out on the edge of town he heard a baby crying.

  A dog barked.

  He saw a few lights appear in the houses of the early risers, and the smell of bacon frying drifted toward him, reminding him that he was a little hungry.

  Finally the sun rose, and he prepared to meet whoever would be coming up for the first watch. He heard the door open downstairs, and he took out his knife, then slipped back into the corner. As his visitor climbed up the ladder, his back would be to Taylor. It would be really easy to kill him as soon as half his body was up through the trapdoor, but if he did so, his victim would likely fall back down. Taylor couldn’t allow that to happen, because that way his body could be seen by others.

  Taylor needed to kill him and hide him.

  The man stepped off the ladder and onto the floor, then stretched, holding both his arms up in the air. He didn’t bother to look around because he had no idea that anyone else would be here.

  Taylor stepped up behind him, then, turning the blade sideways, plunged it in between the fifth and sixth ribs, penetrating the heart. The man who was scheduled to be on the first watch died without making a sound.

  Taylor propped him up so that his head and shoulders were above the level of the half wall. That way if anyone looked up from the street, they would think he was on watch.

  The first rays of sunlight spilled in through the window of Smoke’s hotel room . . . the glass having been replaced. Smoke awoke and studied the shadow patterns on the wall for a few minutes. Last night he decided that he had been wrong about Hannibal. It could be that Hannibal was feeling his losses to the degree that he no longer felt confident in mounting a Laurette-type raid.

  He would discuss it with Pearlie over breakfast this morning; then they would go see Marshal Hardegree and tell him they would be moving on today.

  The question, of course, would be moving on to where? He felt that the information Thigpen had given him about Brimstone had been accurate, otherwise there would not have been so many encounters with Hannibal’s men. But, where was Hannibal’s hideout? He had a lot of men, and like the elephants of the ancient Hannibal, that many men weren’t easy to hide.

  He decided that when they left here he would go back to see Thigpen. If Han
nibal had decided against Brimstone, then he was going to have to find another target. Thigpen had been a valuable source of information for Hannibal in the past, and Smoke was sure he wouldn’t want to let that asset go just because he had lost his liaison. Hannibal would find some way to get in touch with him, and if he did, Smoke wanted to know about it.

  By now enough people in town were cooking breakfast that the aromas of bacon, biscuits, and coffee were coming to Taylor from all sides, and he was beginning to wish that he had brought something to eat with him. The problem is, it had practically been the middle of the night when he left Ten Strike and food was the last thing on his mind.

  Taylor knew that Hannibal had no intention of coming into town until after the bank opened, and that wouldn’t be until nine o’clock. That meant that at least one more watchman would probably show up, and at a few minutes after eight o’clock, someone else did come into the church.

  “Ben? Look, I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late,” someone called up into the belfry. “The wife was late gettin’ breakfast on the table this mornin’.” He laughed as he started climbing up the ladder. “I made her fix a biscuit with bacon for you, just to make up for me being late.”

  When he got to the top of the ladder, the replacement watch saw Ben on his knees, leaning against the half wall.

  “Damn, are you so mad at me that you ain’t even goin’ to talk?” he asked.

  As he had done before, Taylor waited until the relief watch was off the ladder before he moved toward him. But as he started toward him, he kicked the bell rope.

  “What the hell?” the relief watch said, turning toward the sound. He saw Taylor, and he opened his mouth to yell, but Taylor made a quick, slicing motion across his throat, severing his carotid artery and his windpipe. Blood squirted from the neck wound, the man raised his hands to his neck, and Taylor watched the life leave his terror-stricken eyes.

  Then he picked up the bacon and biscuit. He was hungry, and it tasted pretty good to him.

  Ten Strike

  The sun was low in the east as Hannibal called his company to horse. And as if they were cavalrymen—a few of them had been—every man stood by his horse, grasping the reins very close to the bridle. The men were in company front formation, which meant that they were in one, long line.

  Hannibal made an inspection troop of the line, stopping in front of Mason.

  “Raise your armband two inches, so that it is in accordance with the others,” he ordered Snake Eye Mason.

  Mason did so.

  “Peters, button that top button.”

  As Mason had before him, Peters complied.

  He made at least half a dozen more observations of some miniscule infraction, requiring that all be corrected to his satisfaction.

  When he had completed the inspection, he stepped out front to face his men.

  “Men, I know that you wonder why I pay so much attention to little details. Well, there is a very good reason for it. As a matter of fact there is a very good reason for everything we do.

  “It all comes down to discipline and order. A military unit that has discipline and order is a unit that can react quickly to any situation. We’ve been successful in everything we have undertaken because you have been exceptionally well led, and we, as a unit, adhere to those two principles of discipline and order. I told each of you as you joined the Ghost Riders that I would make you the finest military unit in the West, and I have done that. I would be proud to lead you men in battle against any foe.”

  Hannibal turned to Rexwell.

  “Rexwell, call out the first four men,” he said.

  “You four,” Rexwell said, pointing to four men on the end of the formation. “With horse, take ten steps forward.”

  The men did so.

  “All Ghost Riders, including the detached detail, mount!” Hannibal called, and in a perfectly coordinated movement, everyone mounted.

  “Mr. Rexwell, proceed with your detail,” Hannibal ordered.

  Rexwell left the encampment.

  Hannibal stood in his stirrups and looked out over the remaining men.

  “Left by column of twos, ho!” he ordered, and in as precise a formation as any cavalry unit in the entire army, the men rode out.

  Hannibal looked back at his men, everyone trained and led by him. How foolish the army had been not to recognize his leadership skills.

  He wondered if he could raise a large enough army to carve New Mexico and Arizona away from the rest of the country. He believed that he could, and if he formed an alliance with Mexico, he was sure he could do it.

  “Prestonia,” he said aloud, the spoken word covered by the sounds of horses’ hooves.

  Yes, the nation of Prestonia, with him as its supreme leader.

  That was an idea that greatly appealed to him.

  He imagined how history books of the future would read.

  General Enid Prescott founded the nation of Prestonia by fighting a revolution against the United States of America. Though at all times outnumbered in the field, General, later to become President, Prescott prevailed due to the brilliance of his military leadership.

  He hoped that if it ever came to an actual revolution, he would be able to lead his men in battle against Colonel David Twiggs. He could imagine nothing on the face of this planet that would be sweeter than accepting Colonel Twiggs’s sword in defeat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Brimstone

  Smoke and Pearlie were having breakfast at the Chatterbox Café.

  “I don’t know, Smoke, I don’t think they are goin’ to come,” Pearlie said.

  “This is going to surprise you, Pearlie, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I agree with you. I had thought that if Hannibal didn’t come, it would mean a total repudiation of everything he believes about himself. I’m sure he wanted to come here—not in spite of the fact that he knows we are ready for him, but because he knows. I thought he would do it just to show everyone that he can,” Smoke said. “But it may be that he is wise enough not to let common sense be held hostage to his vanity.”

  “Yeah, I mean he’s got to be smart enough to figure it out,” Pearlie said. “It doesn’t make any difference how many of them there are, if we’ve got twenty or thirty men well positioned, we’ll cut him to ribbons.”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Smoke asked. “But—”

  “But what?”

  “I had come to that conclusion this morning. But now I think I was right in the first place. I believe that he will come.”

  “Didn’t you say you had been thinking about it and decided he wouldn’t come?”

  “Yes, I had been thinking about it. But I don’t believe Hannibal has been thinking about it. I don’t think he can overcome his vanity.”

  “How much longer do you think we’ll have to wait around here?”

  “Getting a little impatient, are you, Pearlie?”

  “Yeah, a little,” Pearlie admitted.

  “I am too, but I expect the men riding with Hannibal are getting even more impatient. He’s not going to be able to keep them in check for too long. But I’ll give you this. If he doesn’t come within the week, we’ll go looking for him,” Smoke said.

  One hour after Smoke and Pearlie’s breakfast conversation, the two elements of the Ghost Riders were in position. Rexwell was just north of Brimstone, and Hannibal, with the main striking element, was to the south.

  Before leaving their encampment, Hannibal and Rexwell had synchronized their pocket watches. Now, as the four mounted men with him waited patiently, Rexwell was looking at his watch. When the minute hand reached eleven, he brought his hand down.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  Rexwell and his small group approached the town at a gallop. As they reached the first house, a young woman and her little boy were in the front yard. They were the first to be shot.

  The riders continued on into town, shooting at everyone they saw. The men of the town, who had thought a ringing bell wou
ld alert them, were caught by surprise. Many of them were unarmed, and those few who were armed were caught by such surprise that their resistance was weak and fragmented.

  At the first sound of shooting, Smoke and Pearlie were with Marshal Hardegree in his office. The three rushed out into the street with pistols drawn, but the riders didn’t get this far. Instead they stopped at the far end of the street, pointed pistols into the air, fired three, synchronized shots, then turned and rode away.

  “Why are they leaving?” Hardegree asked.

  “Maybe it was a feint to see how far they could get before the watchman started ringing the bell. But there’s something wrong, because the bell didn’t ring at all,” Smoke said.

  “Why didn’t the bell ring?” Pearlie asked.

  “I don’t know, but that’s a good question. I’m going to the bell tower,” Smoke said. “Who’s got the watch now?”

  “Jack Mitchell,” Hardegree said. “He should have rung the bell, he’s a good man.”

  Smoke ran across the street to the church. He started to yell up to Jack, but thought better of it when he saw drops of blood on the floor in front of the ladder.

  “They’re leaving!” he heard someone call from the street.

  “We must’a run ’em off.”

  Smoke heard someone coming down the ladder then, and he stepped into the corner to see who it was.

  It was Toon Taylor, one of the two men he and Cal had captured at the Wiregrass Ranch and had taken in to Brown Spur to be hanged.

  “Hello, Taylor,” Smoke said.

  “What the hell?” Taylor shouted as he went for his pistol.

  Smoke, who already had his pistol in hand, just smiled. He waited until Taylor had drawn and brought his gun to bear, before he shot.