War of the Mountain Man (6 page)

“You got it all figured out, huh, Max?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“It promises to be an interesting summer, Max.”

Max threw his smoked-down cigar into the street and rose from the bench. “I hope I don't see you again, Jensen,” he said, with his back to Smoke.

“Oh, you will, Max. You will.”

Smoke sat on the bench and watched as the sullen bunch of gunfighters rode slowly out of town, being very careful to kick up as little dust as possible. Only Pete Akins raised a hand in farewell.

With a grin on his face, he called, “See you around, Smoke.”

“Take it easy, Pete.”

The pimply-faced boy whose name Smoke had learned was Brewer, glared hate at him as he rode past.

“You bear in mind what I said, son,” Smoke called to him.

The young man gave Smoke an obscene gesture.

Bringing up the rear of the procession was a wagon, the two bone-broken deputies lying on hay in the bed, groaning as the wagon lurched along.

Tom Johnson crossed the street, leading a group of men and women, Judge Garrison among them.

“Tom, did you send those wires like I asked?” Smoke said.

“Yes, sir. Folks should start arriving in about a week. What about those people in town loyal to Huggins?”

“Tell them to hit the trail, Tom. You're the newly elected mayor.”

“How about me?” Judge Garrison asked.

“You're staying, Judge. You and me, we're going to see to it that justice prevails in this part of the county. Tom has arranged for a man to come in and reopen the newspaper. He's got people coming in that include a schoolteacher, a preacher, and some shopkeepers. Barlow is going to boom again, Judge. Nice and legal.”

“Young man,” the judge said, sitting down on the edge of the boardwalk, “have you given any thought as to what will happen when you decide to leave?”

“Oh, yes.”

They waited, but Smoke did not elaborate.

The judge sighed. “I must admit, it's a good feeling to be free of Max Huggins.” He cut his eyes to Smoke. “For as long as it lasts, that is.”

“Trust me, Judge,” Smoke told him, putting a finger to the side of his head. “I've got it all worked out up here.” He pulled out his watch and clicked it open. “What times does the stage run?”

“It'll be here in about an hour,” Tom told him.

“It turns around at Hell's Creek?”

“That's right.”

Smoke smiled. “Well, then, I'll just make plans to meet the stage. Right now, I have to see about finding a deputy.”

“That's not going to be easy, Smoke,” the judge said. “I don't know of a single person who is qualified. Most of the ranches in this part of the county have only the hands they absolutely need to get by. There's about a dozen farmers in this area. Good people, but not gunslingers.”

“Who is that prisoner in the jail? What's he being held for?”

The judge rolled his eyes. “His name is Dagonne. Jim Dagonne. He's not a bad sort; matter of fact, he's rather a likable fellow. He just likes to fight. The problem is, he never can win one. He's a good cowboy. Works hard. But when he starts drinking, he picks fights. And he always loses.”

Smoke nodded his head, a smile on his face. “All right, folks, let's get to work. We've got a lot to do.”

Smoke unlocked the cell door and dragged the sleeping Jim Dagonne out of the bunk. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and in good shape, although not a big man.

“What the hell! ” Dagonne hollered as Smoke dragged him across the floor and out the back door.

“Shut up, Jim,” Smoke told him. He shoved him in a tub of cold water and tossed him a bar of soap. “Strip and scrub pink. I'll have your clothes washed and dried. Then well talk.”

“Who the hell are you?” Jim hollered. “You let me out of this tub and I'll whup you all over this backyard.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

Jim sank into the tub and covered his head with water.

Twenty minutes later, sober and clean, wrapped in a blanket, Jim Dagonne sat in front of Smoke's desk and waited. He did not have a clue as to what Smoke wanted of him.

Smoke stared at the young man. Maybe five feet seven. Not much meat on him, but wiry; rawhide tough. Hard to tell what he looked like, with his face all banged up and both eyes swollen nearly closed, but he appeared to be a rather nice-looking young man.

“You don't have a job, Jim,” Smoke finally broke the silence. “The judge said you got fired from the Circle W.”

“I probably did. Joe got tired of bailing me out of jail, I reckon.”

“Joe who?”

“Joe Walsh. Owns the spread.”

“Good man?”

“One of the best. Arrow straight. Are you really Smoke Jensen?”

“Yes.” Smoke tapped the gunbelt on his desk. “This yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you use it?”

“I'm not real fast, but I don't hardly ever miss.”

“That's the most important thing. You wanted anywhere, Jim?”

“No, sir! I ain't never stole nothing in my life.”

Smoke reached down on the floor and picked up a bulky package. He tossed it to Jim. “New jeans, shirts, socks, and drawers in there. Go get dressed. You're my new deputy.”

Jim stared at him. “I'm a what?”

“My deputy. Your drinking days are over, Jim. You're now a full-fledged member of the temperance league. You take one drink, just one, and I'll stomp your guts into a greasy puddle in the middle of that street out there, and then I'll feed what's left to the hogs. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Fine. Get dressed and go down to Judge Garrison's office. He'll swear you in as a deputy sheriff. Then you meet me back here.” He looked at the clock. “Right now, I've got to meet a stage.”

 

 

“Out,” Smoke told the passengers before the stage had stopped rocking. Two hurdy-gurdy girls, a tin-horn gambler, one drummer selling corsets and assorted ladies' wear, and Al Martin, a gunfighter from down Utah way, stepped down.

“You stopping here or going on to Hell's Creek?” Smoke asked the drummer.

“Hell's Creek.”

“Get back in the stage. The rest of you come with me.”

“And if I don't?” the gambler challenged him.

Smoke laid the barrel of a .44 against the man's head, knocking him to the street. He handcuffed him to a hitchrail, then faced Al Martin.

“You got trouble in you, Al?”

“Probably. I know you, but I can't put a name to the face.”

“Smoke Jensen.”

Al eyeballed Smoke, his eyes flicking from the badge to his face. The hurdy-gurdy girls stood off to one side.

“Get moving,” Smoke told the driver.

“Yes, sir. I'm gone!”

He hollered at the fresh team and rattled up the street.

“I'll just have me a drink and wait for the southbound stage,” Al said.

“That's fine. Stay out of trouble.” He looked at the saloon girls. “You ladies get you a room at the hotel and stay quiet. You're on the next stage south. It rolls through in the morning.”

They wanted to protest. But the name Smoke Jensen shut their mouths. They twirled their parasols, picked up their baggage, shook their bustles, and sashayed down the boardwalk.

“Off the street, Al,” Smoke told the gunfighter.

Al tipped his hat, got his grip, and walked into the saloon.

Smoke dragged the gambler to the jail and tossed him in a cell.

“What's the charge, marshal?” the gambler called.

“Disobeying an officer of the law and littering.”

“Littering?”

“You were lying in the street, weren't you?”

“Hell, man. You put me there.”

“Tell it to the judge. He'll have court sometime this month.”

Smoke stepped outside and rolled one of the few cigarettes he smoked a day. He lit up and smiled. It was going to be an interesting summer. He was looking forward to it.

Jim walked up, all decked out in his new clothes and with a shiny badge pinned to his shirt.

“What'd I miss?”

“Not much.” Smoke brought him up to date.

“Littering?” Jim laughed. “Now that's a new one on me.”

“We'll see what the judge has to say about it.”

“Al Martin's a bad one. He's one of Big Max Huggins's boys. He'll try you, Smoke. Bet on that.”

“He won't do it but once. Come on. I'll introduce you to my wife and we'll get something to eat.”

They were halfway across the street when a dozen men came riding into town from the south, kicking up a lot of dust.

“That's Red Malone and his crew,” Jim said. “He likes to ride roughshod over everybody. Owns the Lightning brand. I never worked for him 'cause I don't like him and he don't like me.”

Smoke stood in the middle of the street and refused to move, forcing the horsemen to come to a stop.

“Get out of the damn street, idiot!” the lead rider yelled.

“You Malone?” Smoke asked.

“Yeah. If it's any of your business.”

“There's a new law on the books, Malone. No galloping horses within the city limits.”

Red laughed, and it was an ugly laugh. “I'd like to see the two-bit deputy who's gonna stop me.” Then his smile faded. “Hey, you're new here. Didn't your boss tell you that me and the boys are to be left alone?” His face mirrored further confusion when he saw Jim and the badge pinned to his shirt. “What the hell's goin' on around here? You got stomped in a fight a couple of nights ago and got tossed in jail. Where is Bridy and Long?”

“Max come and got them this morning,” Jim said with a grin. “They was all stove up after Smoke Jensen here tossed both of 'em out of that window up yonder yesterday.” He pointed to the boarded-up window of the hotel.

Red Malone and all his men looked . . . first at the window and then back at Smoke.

“You asked what two-bit deputy was going to stop you, Red?” Smoke said. “You're looking at him.”

“Lemme take him, boss,” a scar-faced man said. “I think I'm better than him.”

Red Malone did not reply; he was studying Smoke carefully. “Heard about you for years, Jensen. You're supposed to be the fastest gun around. So what are you doing in this hick town?”

“Helping out the people, Malone. They had some bad law enforcement here. They asked me to take over.”

“What'd Max have to say about that?”

“Not a whole lot, actually. And his men were too busy washing windows and mopping up the boardwalk to say very much.”

Malone silently chewed on that for a moment, not really sure what Smoke was talking about. For a fact, something big had gone down here in Barlow; something that had drastically changed the town.

And that something big and drastic had a name: Smoke Jensen.

“Come on, Red!” the scar-faced man insisted. “Lemme take him.” He stepped out of the saddle, handing the reins to another man.

Malone looked at the man. He wasn't worth a tinker's damn as a cowboy, but he was fast with a gun. Malone nodded his head. “All right, Charlie. It's your show.”

Red Malone and his crew lifted their reins and moved to the other side of the street.

“Watch my back, Jim,” Smoke said.

“You got it.”

“I been hearin' about you for fifteen years or more, Jensen,” Charlie said. “I'm sick of hearin' about you. Makes me want to puke.”

Red Malone cut his eyes to a rooftop. Tom Johnson stood there, a rifle in his hand. Marbly from the general store stepped out of his establishment, also with a rifle in his hands. Benson from the blacksmith shop appeared to Malone's right, a double-barrel shotgun in his hands. Toby from the hotel appeared on a rooftop, carrying a rifle.

The town was solidly behind Jensen, for sure.

Malone turned to his foreman. “John, we're out of this fight. Look around you. Pass the word.”

John Steele looked. More townspeople had stepped out of their businesses and homes, all of them carrying weapons. John softly passed the word: Whatever happens between Jensen and Charlie, we're out of it.

Smoke stood relaxed in the center of the street. He had not taken his eyes off of Charlie.

The scar-faced gunny stood with his legs apart, body tensed for the draw. “You ready to die, Jensen?” he called.

“Not today, friend,” Smoke said. “You got anything you want me to pass along after you're gone?”

Charlie cursed him.

“As a legally appointed deputy sheriff of this county, I am ordering you to surrender your guns, Charlie. There will be no charges filed against you if you do that.”

Charlie laughed at him.

“You were warned,” Smoke said softly.

“Draw!” Charlie yelled, and his right hand dipped down, the fingers closing around the butt of his pistol.

He felt something heavy and hard strike him in the chest. Charlie was on his back in the street, the sun-warmed dirt hot through his shirt. A shadow fell over him. Through the mist that had suddenly covered his eyes, he could see Smoke Jensen standing over him, a pistol in his hand, held by his side, the hammer back.

Charlie fumbled for his gun. He was astonished to find it was still in leather.

“I never seen anybody that fast,” John Steele said to his boss. “It was like the wind.”

“Yeah,” Red reluctantly agreed.

The rest of Malone's bunch, all hard cases in their own right, sat their saddles quietly. They were all brave men, loyal to the brand, and all good with a gun. But they wanted no part of Smoke Jensen. Not face to face, anyway.

“You should have stayed in the bunkhouse today, Charlie,” Smoke told the dying man.

“You! ...” Charlie gasped the word. Then he closed his eyes and died.

Smoke holstered his 44 and walked over to Red Malone. “No trouble in this town, Malone. No racing your horses and kicking up dust. No discharging of firearms. No foul language outside the saloon. Any of your crew gets drunk, you take them home, or me or Jim will put them in jail and the judge will fine them. Is all that understood?”

Hate leaped out of Red Malone's eyes. No one talked to him like that and got away with it.

He stepped out of the saddle without replying and turned his back to Smoke. A hard hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around, almost jerking him off his boots. Smoke Jensen stood staring at him, eyeball to eyeball.

“I asked you a question, Malone. I expect a reply.”

Red noticed that Smoke had slipped on leather gloves. “I'll give you a reply, gunslinger,” Red said. “and here it is.”

Red swung a big fist. Had it connected, it would have knocked Smoke off his boots.

It didn't connect.

Smoke sidestepped and planted one big fist in Red's belly. The air whooshed out of the man as he stumbled back. Smoke stepped in and popped him on the jaw with a left, following that with a right. Red fell back against a hitchrail. He shook his big head and cussed Smoke.

“Anytime you've had enough, Red,” Smoke told him, “you just holler quit and that's it.”

“I run this end of the county, Jensen,” he said, his lips peeled back in an animallike snarl.

Smoke answered him with a sneaky left that snapped Red's head back and bloodied his mouth. Smoke stepped back and waited.

A thin middle-aged cowboy sat his saddle and cut his eyes to John Steele. He whispered, “The boss better uncle, Steele. Jensen's givin' him a chance. If he don't, Jensen'll beat him half to death.”

“I got twenty dollars that says you're wrong, Sal,” John replied.

“You're on.”

Red faked with a left and connected against Smoke's jaw with a right. The punch hurt. Smoke stepped back and shook his head. Red pursued him out into the street, grinning through the blood on his mouth.

Smoke ducked a punch and hammered a right over Red's kidney, following that with an uppercut to the man's mouth. Blood leaked from Red's lips.

Red backhanded Smoke in the face and charged, trying to grab him in a bear hug. Smoke danced to one side and hit Red twice in the face with a left and a right.

Red slipped a fist through and busted Smoke on the jaw, but the punch had lost a lot of steam. Smoke hit him with another combination, belly and jaw, then tripped the man, sending him sprawling to the dirt.

Red came up with a fistful of dirt and hurled it at Smoke, trying to momentarily blind the gunfighter. But Smoke had been raised by mountain men, and he knew all the tricks and then some. He ducked under the dust cloud and rammed Red in the belly with his head, both hands around the man's hard waist. Smoke drove him into a hitchrail. The hitchrail broke under the impact and Smoke released the man just in time to see Red fall into a horse trough.