War of the Mountain Man (7 page)

Smoke stood on the outside of the trough and hammered Red's face into a bloody mask. Red lost consciousness and slipped down into the water, bubbling.

Smoke stepped back, found his hat, and put it on just as John Steele and several others were frantically pulling their boss out of the trough before he drowned.

“Drag him over to the jail and dump him in a cell,” Smoke ordered.

“I'll be damned if I will!” Steele shouted at Smoke.

Jim walked up and laid his pistol across the back of the foreman's head, and it was Steele's turn to fall into the trough, face first.

“Drag both of them to jail,” Smoke ordered. This time, no objections were forthcoming. The Lightning brand crew dragged the boss and the foreman across the street and into the jail, depositing both of them in a cell.

John Steele opened his eyes and glared hate at everybody. Red Malone snored and bubbled on his bunk.

“Gimme my twenty dollars,” Sal said.

John dug in his damp pockets and threw a double eagle at the man. “Here's your damn money. And here's something else: You're fired!”

“Suits me,” Sal said, slipping the twenty-dollar gold piece into his vest pocket. “I'm tarred of listenin' to your big mouth a-flappin' anyways.”

“The next time I see you, Sal, you better be ready to drag iron.”

The thin bowlegged cowboy lifted his eyes and stared at the foreman. Smoke knew that look; he had worn it himself, many times: It was the look of a very dangerous and very confident man. Smoke smiled, thinking: I've found another deputy.

“You best think about that, John.” Sal's words were softly spoken and ringed with tempered steel. “I've helped bury a lot better men than you.”

John spat through the bars and cursed him.

Smoke caught Jim's eyes and tapped the star pinned to his shirt, pointing at Sal. Jim grinned and nodded his head in agreement.

Smoke stepped outside and faced the Lightning crew. “You boys can have your drinks at the saloon, buy your tobacco and needs, or whatever else legal you came to town to do. Make trouble, and you'll either join your bosses in there”—he jerked his thumb toward the jail—“or join Charlie in a pine box. The choice is yours.”

“We're peaceful, Smoke,” a hand said. “But this here is a friendly warnin' to you, and don't take it the wrong way. When you let Red outta there, he's gonna be on the prod for you. And right or wrong, we ride for the brand.”

“That's your choice to make. Now, clear the street and drag Charlie off to the undertaker.”

Jim and Sal stepped out onto the boardwalk. Smoke turned to the just-fired puncher and said, “You know anything about deputy sheriffing?”

“I've wore a badge a time or two.”

“You want a job?”

“Might as well. Seein' as how I done been fired from cowboyin'.”

“I have to warn you: It's going to get real interesting around here.”

Sal hitched at his gunbelt. “I 'spect it will. Makes the time pass faster, though.”

“Lemme out of here, you son of a bitch!” John Steele hollered.

“I've had your suit pressed,” Sally told him. “We're going to a party tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The ladies of the town are giving us a party. They're all quite taken with you and want to meet you up close.”

Smoke rolled his eyes. “I can hardly wait.”

Red Malone had woken up and had joined John Steele in bellowing from their cell.

“What are you going to do about that?” Sally asked.

“I can either shoot them, hang them, or cut them loose. What do you suggest?”

“They probably deserve the former. The latter would certainly quiet the town considerably.”

“Lay out my suit. I'll go speak with Judge Garrison.”

“Oh, let's bond them out,” the judge said. “All that squalling is giving me a headache.” He smiled. “We'll set the bond at a hundred dollars apiece. ”

“A hundred dollars!” John Steele recoiled from the bars and screamed like a wounded puma.

“Relax, John,” Malone said. The man's face was horribly bruised, both eyes almost swollen shut, his lips puffy, and his nose looked like a big red beet that an elephant had stepped on. He took a wad of still-damp greenbacks from his pocket and carefully counted out two hundred dollars, passing the money through the bars.

Smoke took it and infuriated the man by counting it again.

“It's all there, you son of a . . .” He choked back the oath and stood gripping the bars, shaking with anger.

“Sure is,” Smoke said cheerfully. He unlocked the door and waved the men out. “You boys take it easy now. And come back to Barlow anytime, now, you hear?”

The rancher and his foreman did not reply. They stomped out and slammed the door behind them. Smoke sat at his desk and chuckled.

 

 

Smoke suffered through the party given by the good ladies of Barlow. He answered the questions—from both men and women alike—as best he could, and ate fried chicken and potato salad until he felt that if he ate another piece, he'd start clacking and laying eggs.

Walking back to the hotel—they had now been moved to the best room in the place, the Presidential Suite, which included a private water closet—Sally said, “Max Huggins had pretty well beaten these people down, hadn't he, honey?”

“Yes. And that first day in town, I came down hard on them—probably too hard. It's easy for someone ruthless to cut the heart out of people. It's ridiculously easy. Max is a smart man as well as a ruthless one. He went after the children of the townspeople. That shows me right there how low he is.”

“You'll have to kill him, won't you, honey?”

“Me, or somebody. Yes.”

Sal walked up, making his rounds, rattling doorknobs and looking up dark alleyways.

“Quiet, Smoke,” the small man said. “I figure it'll be that way for three, maybe five days. Until Red gets back on his feet. And then he'll come gunnin' for you.”

“I expect he will, Sal. I doubt if the man has ever received so thorough a beating as he got today.”

“Smoke, he ain't never even been whipped before this day. And that's the God's truth.”

“Walk along with us, Sal. Tell me about him.”

“I ain't from this part of the country, Smoke. I was born in Missouri and come west with my parents in '50, I think it was. They settled in Nebraska and I drifted when I was seventeen. Most of my time I spent in Colorado and Idaho. That's how come it was I knowed who you was. I didn't come to this area until last year. I was fixin'to drift come the end of the month anyways. I just don't cotton to men like Red Malone and John Steele. I'll tell you what I know about him and about Max Huggins. I was told that Malone come into this area right after the Civil War. He was just a youngster, maybe nineteen or so. He carved him out a place for his ranch and defended it against Injuns and outlaws. Built it up right good. But he's always been on the shady side. Lie, cheat, steal, womanize. I was told his wife was a decent person. She bore him one son and one daughter, and then she took off when it got so Red was flauntin' his other women in her face. He's got women all over the country.”

Smoke stopped them and they sat down on a long bench in front of the barber shop.

Sal pulled out the makings and asked Sally, “You object, ma'am?”

“Oh, no. Go right ahead. I'll take a puff or two off of Smoke's cigarette.”

Sal almost dropped the sack at that. He kept any comments he had to himself. Strong-willed woman, he thought. Probably wants the vote, too. Lord help us all.

Sal rolled, shaped, licked, and lit up. “Red's daughter is a right comely lass. But Tessie is spoiled rotten, has the manners of a hog, and the morals of a billy goat. Melvin is crazy. Plumb loco. He likes to hurt people. And he's fast, Smoke. Have mercy, but the boy is quick. And a dead shot. But he's nuts. His eyes will scare you, make you back up. He's killed maybe half-a-dozen men, and they weren't none of them pilgrims, neither. Red's good with a short gun, but Melvin is nearabouts as fast as you, Smoke. And I ain't kiddin'.

“Naturally, just as soon as Big Max come into the area, him and Red struck a deal. Max would own the law enforcement of the county—and it's a sorry bunch—and control the north end of the county, and Red would control the south end. Red didn't have no interest in runnin' this town. He just wanted his share of the crooked games up in Hell's Creek, and his share of the gold and greenbacks taken in robberies. In return, he'd see that no one come in here with reform on their mind. So that means, Smoke, that you got to go. There ain't no other way for Red and Max to keep on doin' what they're doin'.

“Big Max, now, that's another story. Bad through and through. He's run crooked games and killed and robbed folks and run red-light houses from San Francisco to Fort Worth and north into Canada. He's a sorry excuse for a human being. I'd be happy to kill him if for no other reason than to clear the air for other folks.”

“I can see why Max settled here,” Smoke said.

“Sure. Wild country. One road runnin'north and south, one road runnin' east and west. No trains yet. Proper law ain't reached this part of the territory yet.” He smiled, then added, “'Cepting in this little town, that is.”

 

 

The next morning, Smoke escorted the gambler he'd jailed to the stagecoach office. Jim fetched the hurdy-gurdy girls from the hotel.

“You might eventually get to Hell's Creek,” Smoke informed them all. “But it won't be by going through Barlow.”

“This ain't legal,” the gambler protested.

“Sue me,” Smoke said, and shoved the tinhorn into the stage. He looked up at the driver. “Get them out of here.”

“Yes, sir!” the driver grinned, and yelled at his team.

Smoke began his walk to the hotel to deal with Al Martin. The gunfighter had sent a boy to tell Smoke he wasn't about to be run out of town.

“How are you gonna deal with this guy?” Sal asked.

“He wants to stay in Barlow,” Smoke replied. “So I'm going to let him stay.”

“Huh?” Jim looked at Smoke.

“Forever,” Smoke said tightly. “If that's the way he wants it.”

Al Martin was lounging on the boardwalk in front of the hotel, having an after-breakfast cigar.

“He's quick,” Sal told Smoke. “With either hand. I've seen him work.”

Smoke had no comment about that.

Al Martin tossed his cigar into the dirt and stepped out into the street.

“You boys get out of the way,” Smoke told his deputies.

Sal and Jim stepped to one side.

Al brushed back his coat, exposing the butts of his .45's.

“One more chance, Al,” Smoke called, never breaking his stride. “You can rent a horse at the livery and ride south.”

“I'm headin' north,” Al returned the call.

“Not through this town,” Smoke told him.

“You don't have the right to do that.”

“I'm doing it, Al.”

Joe Walsh, the owner of the Circle W, had left his ranch early with two of his men, to buy supplies in Barlow. The men stood in front of Bonnie's Cafe and watched. Joe had heard of Smoke Jensen for years, but he had never seen him until now.

He was very impressed by this first sighting. He'd heard of what had happened to Red, and that amused him. If any man had a beating coming to him, it was Red. And Max Huggins. But Joe wondered if Smoke was hoss enough to take the huge Max Huggins.

“Last chance, Al,” Smoke called. “I am ordering you to leave this town immediately.”

Smoke stopped about forty feet from Al.

“You know where you can stick that order, Jensen.”

“Then make your play, Al,” Smoke said calmly.

Al went for his guns. He got both barrels of the 45's halfway out of leather before Smoke drew. Smoke shot him twice, in the belly and the chest, the slugs turning the man around and sitting him down in the street, on his butt.

“Holy Mother of Jesus!” Joe Walsh whispered the words. “He's so quick it was a blur.”

His hands shook their heads in awe.

Smoke walked up to Al Martin. The gunfighter looked up at him. “Melvin's quicker, Jensen,” he pushed the words past bloody lips. “You'll meet your match with the kid.”

“Maybe. But you'll meet your Maker long before that happens.”

Al fell over on his side. “Cold,” he muttered. “Gimme a decent buryin',” he requested. “One fittin' a human being.”

“I would,” Smoke told him, his words carrying to both sides of the street, “if you were a decent human being.”

“Bastard!” Al cursed him.

“That's a hard man yonder,” Joe told his hands. “Probably the hardest man I ever seen.”

Al Martin died cursing the name of Smoke Jensen.

Smoke punched out the empty brass and reloaded just as the combination barber/undertaker came walking up.

“What kind of funeral you want him to have, Sheriff?” he asked.

“Whatever his pockets will bear,” Smoke told him. “Bring his guns and personal items to the office.”

“Them's right nice boots he's wearin',” the man said. “Be a shame to waste that leather.”

“Whatever,” Smoke said. He walked over to the cafe and stepped up on the boardwalk.

The rancher stuck out his hand. “Joe Walsh,” he introduced himself. “I own the Circle W.”

Smoke took the hand.

“Good to have some decent law enforcement around here.” He looked across the street at Jim Dagonne and grinned. “How'd you get him off the jug?”

“I told him I'd stomp his guts out and feed what was left to the hogs if he ever took another drink.”

Joe laughed. “He's a good boy. I would have rehired him in a day or two, but I think he's better off in what you got him doing.” He looked at Sal. “That's a good man, too.”

“I think so.”

“Watch your back when you ride out in the county. Red Malone don't forget or forgive. I'll tell the wife you're in town. You and your missus come out to the ranch anytime for dinner. We'd love the company.”

“I'll do it.”

Smoke had sized up the rancher and thought him to be a good, hard-working man. And one who would fight if pushed. Probably the reason Red and Max had left him alone. His hands wore their guns like they knew how to use them . . . and would.

Sal walked over. “The undertaker said Al had quite a wad on him. He's gonna hire some wailers and trot out his black shiny wagon for this one. He said the weather bein'as cool as it is, Al can probably stand two days. Ought to be a new preacher in town by that time.”

Smoke nodded. “You and Jim watch the town. I'm going to lay in some supplies and take a ride. I'll be gone for a couple of days, getting the lay of the land.”

“Watch yourself, Smoke. Red's probably sent the word out for gunhands.”

Again, Smoke nodded. “You and Jim start totin' sawed-off shotguns, Sal. Any gunslicks that come in, either move them on or bury them.”

“You got it.”

“I'll see you in two or three days.”

 

 

Smoke rode out of the valley and into the high country. The high lonesome, Old Preacher had called it. It pulled at a man, always luring him back to its beauty. The valley was surrounded by high snowcapped peaks, with the lower ridges providing good summer graze for the cattle.

Smoke had checked out the boundaries of the Lightning spread at the surveyor's office, and he carefully avoided Malone's range. Keeping Mt. Evans to his right, Smoke rode toward Hell's Creek. He wasn't concerned about Sally's friends being worried about their not showing up. By now, everyone in the county knew Smoke was in Barlow. He only hoped the doctor and his wife had sense enough to keep their mouths shut about their being friends with Sally.

He rode up to a farmhouse and gave a shout. A man in bib overalls came out of the barn and took a long look at Smoke. Then he went back in and returned carrying a rifle.

“If you be friendly, swing down and have some coffee,” the farmer called. “If you've come to make trouble for us, my woman and my two boys have rifles on you from the house.”

“I'm the new marshal at Barlow,” Smoke called. “The name is Smoke Jensen.”

“Lord have mercy!” the farmer said. “Come on in and put your boots under our table. The wife nearabouts got the noonin' ready to dish up.”

“I'm obliged.”

The fare was simple but well-cooked and plentiful, consisting of hearty stew made with beef and potatoes and carrots and onions, along with huge loaves of fresh-baked bread. Smoke did not have to be told twice to dive in.