War of the Mountain Man (3 page)

“Oh, yes, ma'am. I sure will.”

The room was clean and it faced the street. Smoke laid out clean clothes and shook out and hung up one of Sally's dresses while she bathed. He looked out the window and was not surprised to see a crowd gathering on the boardwalks below their room. Neither was he surprised to see the sheriff and two deputies among the gawking people. The desk clerk had not been slow in running his mouth.

He bathed and shaved while Sally got herself all fixed up, then dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and string tie. He strapped on his .44's and they went down to the dining room for an early supper.

Smoke got a shot of whiskey from the bar for himself and a glass of wine for Sally, then rejoined his wife in the dining room. The sheriff approached them.

“Mind if I join you for a moment?” the lawman asked respectfully, his hat in his hand.

Smoke pushed out a chair with one boot.

“Coffee, Marie,” the sheriff ordered.

“Nice little town, Sheriff,” Sally said, taking a sip of wine.

“Thank you, ma'am. And it's peaceful, too.”

Smoke knew his cue when he heard it. “It'll stay peaceful, too, Sheriff. We're here to rest for the night and then we'll be moving on.”

“Nothin' is peaceful around you for very long, Jensen,” the sheriff said. “You attract trouble like honey does flies.”

“We don't have any trouble in the town near where I live,” Smoke rebutted. “Hasn't been a shot fired in anger in a long, long time.”

“How do you manage that?”

“We get rid of the troublemakers, Sheriff. It's really very simple.”

“You run them out of town, eh?”

“We usually bury them,” Sally said.

The sheriff cut his eyes to her. Strong-willed woman, he reckoned. Man would be hard-pressed to hold the reins on this one, he figured.

He'd of course seen them riding into town, her astride that mare and packing a pistol. Way she carried it, the sheriff figured she knew how to use it. And, more importantly, would use it.

“There's some pretty randy ol' boys in this town, Smoke. Some of them would like to make a reputation. I thought I'd warn you.”

“The only way they're going to get to me, Sheriff, is if they come into the lobby of this hotel and call me out while I'm reading the newspaper, come in here while I'm eating and call me out, or try to backshoot me when I'm pulling out in the morning.”

“And if they call you out? . . .”

“Then I guess the local undertaker is going to get some business, Sheriff.”

“The one that'll more than likely try to crowd you is called Chub. He's a bad one, I'll give him that. He's killed a couple of men and wounded a couple more in face-downs. He's quick, Jensen.”

“I'll bear that in mind, Sheriff.”

The sheriff drank his coffee and eyeballed Smoke. Wrists as big as some men's forearms. And his upper arms; Lord have mercy! The man had muscle on top of muscle. The sheriff had heard of Smoke Jensen for years, but this was the first time he'd ever seen him. And as far as the sheriff was concerned, it was a sight that he'd not soon forget.

The sheriff pushed back his chair and stood up. “See you, Jensen. Ma'am.”

“See you around, Sheriff,” Smoke told him just as the waitress put their dinner in front of them.

“Smells good,” Smoke said.

“Then you'd better enjoy it, mister,” a small boy said, walking up to the table. “'Cause Chub Morgan told me to tell you he was gonna kill you just as soon as you got done eatin'.”

Smoke looked at the boy. “You go tell Chub I said to calm down. When I finish eating and have my brandy, I'll step outside to smoke my cigar on the boardwalk. I get testy when people interrupt my dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke gave the boy a coin. “Now get off the streets, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

But Smoke knew he wouldn't. The boy would gather up all his friends and they'd find them a spot to watch. A shooting wasn't nearly the social event a good hanging was, but it would do. Things just got boring in small western towns. Folks had been known to pack lunches and dinners and drive or ride a hundred miles for a good hanging. And a double hanging was even better.

“Who is Chub Morgan, honey?” Sally asked.

“I have no idea, Sally. But I'll tell you what he's going to be as soon as I finish my food.”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Dead.”

Smoke had his coffee and a glass of brandy, then bought a cigar and stepped outside. Sally took a seat in the lobby and read the local paper.

It was near dusk and the wide street was deserted. All horses had been taken from the hitchrails and dogs had been called home. Smoke lit his cigar and leaned against an awning support.

He had played out this scene many times in his life. and Smoke knew he was not immortal. He'd taken a lot of lead in his life. And he would rather talk his way out of a gunfight than drag iron. But he was realist enough to have learned early that with some men, talking was useless. It just prolonged the inevitable. Smoke also knew—and had argued the belief many times with so-called learned people—that some men were just born bad, with a seed of evil in them.

And there was only one way to deal with those types of people.

Kill them.

Smoke puffed on his cigar and waited.

A cowboy rode into town and reined up at the saloon. He dismounted, looked around him, and spotted Smoke Jensen, all dressed in a black suit with the coat brushed back, exposing those deadly .44's.

The cowboy put it all together in a hurry and swung back into the saddle, riding down to the stable. He wanted his horse to be out of the line of fire.

After stabling his horse, the cowboy ran up the alley to the rear of the saloon and slipped inside. Everybody in the place, including the barkeep, was lined up by the windows.

“What's goin' on?” the cowboy called.

“Chub Morgan's made his brags about killin' Smoke Jensen for years. He's about to get his chance. That there's Smoke Jensen over yonder in the black suit.”

The cowboy pulled his own beer and walked to the window. “You don't say? Damn, but he's a big one, ain't he? What's he doin' in this hick town?”

“Him and his wife rode in a couple hours ago. She's a pretty little thing. Right elegant once she got out of them men's britches and put on a proper dress. Packs a .44 like she knows how to use it.”

“Jensen doesn't seem too worried about facin'Chub,” the cowboy remarked.

“Jensen's faced hundreds of men in his time,” an old rummy said. “He's probably thinkin' more about what he's gonna have for breakfast in the mornin' than worried about a two-bit punk like Chub.”

“Chub's quick,” the cowboy said. “You got to give him that. But he's a fool to face Jensen.”

“Yonder's Chub,” the barkeep said.

Smoke, still leaning against the post, cut his eyes as a man began the walk down the street. As the man drew nearer, Smoke straightened up. He held his cigar in his left hand, the thumb of his right hand hooked under his belt buckle.

“He's gonna use that left hand .44,” the cowboy said. “Folks say he's wicked with either gun.”

“Reckon where his wife is?”

“Foster from the store said she was sitting in the lobby, readin' the newspaper,” the barkeep said.

“My, my,” the cowboy said. “Would you look at Chub. He's done went home and changed into his fancy duds.”

Smoke noticed the fancy clothes the punk was wearing. He'd blacked his boots and shined his spurs. Big rowels on them; looked like California spurs. His britches had been recently pressed. Chub's shirt was a bright red; looked like satin. Had him a purple bandana tied around his neck. Even his hat was new, with a silver band.

Smoke waited. He knew where Sally was sitting; he'd told her where to sit, with a solid wood second-floor support to her back to stop any stray bullet. Not that Smoke expected any stray bullets from Chub's gun. He doubted that Chub would even clear leather. But one never really knew for sure.

Smoke watched the man approach him and, for another of the countless times, wondered why a man would risk his life for the dubious reputation of a gunfighter.

“Jensen!” Chub called.

“Right here,” Smoke said calmly.

“Your wife's a real looker,” Chub said, a nasty edge to the words. “After I kill you, I'll take her.”

Smoke laughed at the man. Chub's face grew red at the laughter. He cursed Smoke.

Smoke was suddenly tired of it. He wanted a good night's sleep, lying next to Sally. He hadn't ridden into town looking for trouble, and he resented trouble being pushed upon him. He was just damned tired of it.

“Make your play, punk!” Smoke called.

Chub's hands hovered over his pearl-handled guns. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted.

“I don't draw on fools,” Smoke told him. “You called me out, Chub, remember? Now, if you don't have the stomach for it, turn around and go on back home. I'd rather you did that. ”

“Then you a coward!”

Smoke waited, his eyes unblinking.

“You a coward, damn you!” Chub hollered. “Draw, damnit, draw!”

Smoke's cold, unwavering eyes bored into the man's gaze.

“How's it feel to be about to die?” Chub called, trying to steel himself for the draw.

“I wouldn't know, Chub,” Smoke's voice was calm. “Why don't you ask yourself that question?”

The sheriff and his two deputies watched from the small office and jail.

“Now!” Chub yelled, and his hands closed around the butts of his guns.

Smoke drew, cocked, and fired with one fluid motion. A draw so fast that it was only a blur. Blink, and you missed it.

The .44 slug took Chub in the center of the chest, knocking him off his boots and down to his knees in the dusty street. His hands were still on the butts of his guns. The guns were still in leather.

“Good God!” the cowboy said. “I never even seen him draw.”

The sheriff and his deputies stepped out of the office just as the boardwalks on both sides of the street filled with people.

Smoke stepped off the porch and walked to the dying Chub. He held a cocked .44 in his right hand.

Sally had risen from her seat to stand at the window, watching her man.

Chub raised his head. Blood had gathered on his lips. His eyes were full of anguish. “I ... never even seen you draw,” he managed to gasp.

“That's the way it goes, Chub,” Smoke told him just as the lawman reached the bloody scene.

Chub tried to pull a pistol from leather. The sheriff reached down and blocked the move.

“Bastard!” Chub said. It was unclear whom he was cursing, Smoke or the sheriff.

A local minister ran up. “Are you saved, Chub?”

“Hell with you!” Club said, then toppled over on his side. He closed his eyes and died.

The sheriff looked at Smoke. “Now what?”

Smoke shrugged his shoulders as he punched out the empty and reloaded. “Bury him.”

 

 

Smoke and Sally rode out before dawn. The hotel's dining room had not even opened. They would stop along the way and make breakfast.

“Why do they do it, Smoke?” Sally broke the silence of the gray-lifting morning.

Smoke knew what she meant. “I've never understood it, Sally. Men like Chub must be very unhappy men. And very shallow men. Let's get off the trail and follow this creek for a ways,” he changed the subject. “See where it goes.”

The creek wound around and lead them to the Swan River. There they stopped and cooked breakfast. “Fellow back at the hotel said the Swan would lead us right to Hell's Creek. We may as well stay with the river. There are two more little towns between here and Hell's Creek. He said it was right at a hundred miles.”

“You've been in this country before?”

“Not right here. It's all new to me. But you can bet the news of the failed train robbery has reached Huggins by now.”

“You think any of those men recognized you?”

“I doubt it. But the news of our heading north reached Huggins the day after we boarded the train in Denver. But I doubt he knows we're heading for Hell's Creek.”

“I'm sorry I pushed this on you, Smoke.”

“You didn't push anything on me, Sally. You want to visit an old friend who's in trouble. That's your right. And anybody who tries to prevent you from doing that is wrong. If they try to stop you, they'll answer to me. It's as simple as that.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Everything will always be black and white to you, won't it, honey? No gray in the middle.”

“I know what's right, and I know what's wrong. Lawyers want to make it complicated when it isn't. We'll see your friend and her husband and help them work out their problems.”

“Legally?”

Smoke munched on a piece of crisp bacon. “Depends on whether you interpret legal by using common sense or what a lawyer would think, I reckon.”

 

 

Smoke and Sally followed the river north. Two days later they crossed the river and rode into a small village located on the east side of the Swan. There was no hotel in the village but there was a lady who took in boarders. Smoke and Sally got them a room and cleaned up.

The town marshal was waiting on the front porch of the boarding house when Smoke stepped out for some fresh air while supper was being cooked.

“Mr. Jensen,” the marshal said respectfully.

“Afternoon,” Smoke replied, then waited.

“I got to ask,” the marshal finally said. “You in town trouble-huntin'?”

“No. You can relax. I don't hunt trouble. Me and my wife are just passing through.”

The marshal sighed. “That's a relief. I thought maybe you was on the prod for Jake Lewis.”

“Who is Jake Lewis?”

The marshal looked startled. “One of the men who survived that shoot-out you had some years ago. Over to that minin' camp on the Uncompahgre.”

It was Smoke's turn to look startled. “I didn't know there were any survivors.”

“Only one that I know of. Jake Lewis. And you shot him all to hell and gone. There was fifteen men in that camp. You killed fourteen of them. Jake lived. He hid in a privy 'til you rode out.”

“It's news to me, Marshal. I know he wasn't one of the men who raped and killed my wife and killed our baby. I know that for a fact.”

“No, sir. He sure wasn't. He joined up with Canning and Felter later. Jake's brother was known as Lefty. You killed him in the shoot-out.”

“I have no quarrel with Jake, Marshal. You can tell him that.”

“Why don't you tell him, Mr. Jensen? It would sure set his mind to ease.”

“Where is he?”

“Down at the saloon.”

Smoke stared hard at the marshal, wondering if he were being set up.

The marshal picked his thoughts out of the air. “I run a clean town, Mr. Jensen. I don't take no payoffs from nobody and never will. This ain't no setup. But I got to warn you that Jake is armed, and he ain't drinkin'.”

“What you're telling me is that you don't know what he might do, right?”

The marshal exhaled slowly. “That's about it, Mr. Jensen. He may throw down on you. I just don't know.”

“But you want it settled one way or the other?”

“Yes. Jake's been livin' with this for a long time. Lately, it's been eatin' at him. When he heard you was on the rails, comin' north, he about went out of his mind with worry.”

“Does he know Big Max Huggins?”

“I got to tell you that he does. He spends some time up in Hell's Creek.”

“So he hasn't changed his ways much, right?”

“He ain't never caused no trouble around here. You know how it is, Mr. Jensen. I ain't got no warrants on him.”

The marshal's authority ended at the edge of town.

Sally had stepped out on the porch to listen. Smoke turned and met her eyes. “Be careful,” she said. “I'll save a plate for you.”

Smoke nodded and slipped the hammer thongs from his .44's. He stepped off the porch and looked at the marshal. “You walk with me. If this is a setup, I'll take you out first.”

“That's fair. If this is a trap, it ain't one of my doin'.”

Smoke believed him, and he told him so as they walked up the street to the village's only saloon.

“Does Big Max ever get down this far south?”

“Not no more,” the marshal said. “I killed one of his men several years ago and got lead in another one. I ain't the fastest man around with a gun, but I shoot straight.”

“That's the most important thing. His men stay out of your town?”

“That's it. I allow any man one mistake. He leaves after the second one. Or he stays forever.”

Smoke smiled, finding that he liked this blunt-talking marshal.

They stepped up onto the short boardwalk, walking past a dress shop, a gunsmith, and a large general store. The marshal pushed open the batwings and Smoke stepped into the saloon right behind him.