Battle of the Mountain Man

always feared drowning in a river someplace, running out of air. How could a man drown out in the middle of a cow pasture?Twenty-four

Smoke crept forward, toward the shape of a man lying prone at the crest of a rocky knob, firing down at the ranch in regular bursts, as fast as he could reload a Winchester .44. Smoke had a decided advantage tonight that he couldn’t always count on — the noise made by so many rifles firing at once. This made it far easier to slip up behind his quarry, not having to be so careful where he placed each foot.

The rifleman fired seven shells and then paused to load his gun, giving Smoke just the opportunity he needed.

“Turn around. I’ve got a message for you from Jessie,” he said quiedy, just loud enough to be heard above the din of guns banging.

A Mexican with a thin mustache looked over his shoulder as he continued thumbing shells into his rifle. He opened his mouth to speak, until he realized he did not recognize Smoke’s face in the dark. Then he saw Smoke’s pistols.

“Dios!”the man cried. “You are not with us!”

“No, I ain’t.”

“But you say you have a message from Senor Jessie…”

“I suppose I should have said I have a message for Jessie,” Smoke said. “Trouble is, I can’t leave you alive to give it to him.”

The Mexican seemed to understand at once that he stood no chance of turning his gun on Smoke in time. “Por favor, please do not kill me, senor.”

Smoke answered softly, in case other members of Jessie’s gang were close enough to hear him despite the constant rattle of rifle fire back and forth. “Funny you’d beg for your life when you came here to kill us. If the tables were turned, would you give me a chance to ride off?”

“Of course, senor. It would be the honorable thing to do in this situation, when you have the drop on me.”

“You think I oughta give you a chance to aim that rifle at me first?”

The Mexican hesitated, thinking. “I do not believe you would do that, senor.”

“Then you’re callin’ me a liar.”

“No, senor. I only say I do not think you would be so foolish.”

Smoke lowered his pistols to his sides. “Aim it at me. Go ahead. I’ll give you plenty of time.”

Another hesitation, then suddenly the Mexican squirmed around, sweeping his rifle barrel toward Smoke.

“Long enough,” Smoke whispered, whipping his left pistol up, and gently squeezing the trigger so the motion wouldn’t ruin his aim.

His Colt barked, jumping in his fist, its echo lost in a wall of noise coming from the surrounding hills and the ranch down below. The Mexican’s body jerked as though he’d been startled, jolted by the bullet passing through him at close range. He threw back his head and shrieked in pain, letting his rifle fall between his knees. He sat there a moment, staring at Smoke, then he looked down at his belly, where a dark stain was spreading over the front of his shirt

“Madre,” he groaned, touching the bullet hole in his stomach with a fingertip.

“Your mother can’t help you now,” Smoke said. “It’ll take you awhile to die, bein’ gutshot.”

“Take me to the doctor in Mesilla!” the Mexican begged in a high-pitched voice. “Can’t you see that I am badly wounded and without a doctor, I will surely die?”

Smoke turned away from the knob. “I might have considered it, if it wasn’t for the fact you came here to kill me an’ my friends. Adios, bastardo. ”He strolled away into the deep night shadows, looking for another victim, another paid assassin who came to South Springs ranch seeking a murderer’s payday.

A rifle spat flame to his left, behind a thick pinon pine trunk. Smoke crept toward the light on the balls of his feet.

Jack Johnson knelt in matted grass at the base of the tree, with brass cartridge casings scattered all around him. Now and then he saw a muzzle flash wink near one of the barns or a corner post of a corral. He wondered why Jessie Evans would order an attack on such a well-defended ranch. Jack guessed a dozen men were shooting back at them.

“Evans is a fool,” Jack mumbled. “Nobody in his right mind would challenge an outfit armed to the teeth like this bunch, if he knew it ahead of time. This could go on all night…” He took aim at a flickering flash of light and fired, knowing he stood no chance whatsoever of hitting anything at this range. A banging series of gunshots answered his bullet, all high or wide of the mark, whining through tree branches above his head.

He wondered about Boyd and Lee, guessing they were as frustrated with this standoff as he was. At least the three of them had found work in New Mexico Territory, no easy task for men with warrants out on them.

Jack doubted anyone on either side had been wounded or killed, what with everyone shooting in the dark at uncertain targets.

A short pause came in the endless gunfire, long enough for Jack to hear someone behind him, figuring it was probably Boyd or Lee. He glanced over his shoulder while he levered another shell into the firing chamber. “Ain’t this the worst?” he said to a man coming toward him from the rear, from friendly territory. “Can’t see a goddamn thing down there. Looks like somebody oughta decide this ain’t worth it, an’ call it off.”

“Somebody should have,” a voice replied, a voice Jack didn’t recognize.

Jack offered a simple solution. “Why don’t you go tell Mr. Evans this is a waste of time?”

“I’m looking for him now. Where is he?”

“Him an’ Bill Pickett an’ two more is near the big house down yonder. They was gonna try an’ get Chisum if