William W. Johnstone (5 page)

“You don’t say!” the drummer bobbed his head up and down. “I’m from St. Louis myself. I got the finest line of women’s underthings and unmentionables on the market today, I do.”

“How kin you sell ’urn if you cain’t mention um?” Cheyenne asked him.

The drummer looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that.” He stared at the old mountain man. “Are you somebody famous?”

“I have been a time or two,” Cheyenne grumbled.

“That’s Cheyenne O’Malley,” Smoke informed the drummer.

“No kidding! You once fought off a hundred hostile savages.”

“More like fifteen,” Cheyenne told him. “And they wasn’t savages or hostile. They was just mad at me ’cause I bedded down with the chief’s oldest daughter. She was due to marry the war chief who led the band who come after me. Never could make no sense out of that. I enjoyed it and so did she. I went back about ten years later and looked her up. Sorry I did that. She was about the size of a tipi. Hit me up side the head with a rock and called me all sorts of vile names. Damned if I didn’t have to fight the same bunch all over again. But this time that war chief was mad ’cause I hadn’t toted her off ten years back. I don’t think they got along too well.”

“That’s incredible!” the drummer said.

Cheyenne belched. “Damn squaw follered me from the Sun River all the way over to the Bitterroot. Hollerin’ and cussin’ and raisin’ hell. I finally lost her around Lolo Pass. Things like that tend to take some of the joy out of messin’ with wimmin.”

“What stories I’ll have to tell when I get back to St. Louis!” He looked out the window. “Bunch of riders coming.”

Smoke walked to the batwings and looked out. “Gunhands,” he said.

“Is there going to be a Wild West shoot-out?” the drummer questioned.

“I hope not.”

“Oh, that would be so exhilarating!”

“Not for them that gits shot,” Cheyenne said, slipping the hammer thong from his pistol. “All they git is plugged.”

Half a dozen Bar V hands began crowding into the barroom. They pulled up short and fell silent when they saw Smoke.

Smoke knew two of them. Blackjack Morgan and Gus Fall. The others might well be hell on wheels with a short gun, but they just hadn’t made a name for themselves as yet. And if they decided to brace Smoke Jensen and Cheyenne O’Malley, the only name they were going to get would be carved on their gravestones.

“Jensen,” Blackjack said, walking past him, his spurs jingling.

Smoke nodded his head.

Gus stopped by the bar and stared at Smoke. He shifted his chew around in his mouth and spat toward a spittoon near Smoke’s boot. He missed the cuspidor, the tobacco juice striking Smoke’s boot.

Gus grinned at him. “You can get the boy out front to come lick it off.”

His grin was wiped off his face in a bloody smear as Smoke swung the beer mug, hitting Gus’s jaw and knocking a couple of teeth slap out of his mouth. Gus was propelled backward, his boots slipping on the fresh-mopped floor. He slammed through the batwings, tearing one off, and fell into the dusty street, on his back, out cold.

Micky sat on the bench and stared, mouth open, eyes wide.

Smoke tossed the handle of the mug onto the plank. “Another beer, please.”

“There wasn’t no call to do that,” one of the young so-called gunslicks told Smoke. “’Sides, Gus is my friend. I feel obliged to take up for him.”

Cheyenne laid the barrel of his Colt against the young man’s head and he dropped to the floor like a rock.

One of the young man’s buddies thought it was a dandy time to grab for iron. He changed his mind as Cheyenne eared back the hammer on his Colt and put those cold old eyes on the kid.

“Boy,” Cheyenne warned him, “I’ll blow a hole in your gawddamn belly a horse could ride through.”

“That’s Cheyenne O’Malley!” the drummer blurted out as warning.

The young man’s face turned gray and shiny with sweat. He let his eyes slide away from the eyes of death staring at him from the face of the mountain man. Slowly, very slowly, he let his hands drop to his sides, as far away from the butts of his guns as humanly possible. He would have grabbed the boards on the floor if his reach had been long enough.

Cheyenne eased the hammer down and holstered the Colt. He turned his attentions back to his shot glass.

“See about Gus,” Blackjack told one of the men. He cut his eyes to Smoke. “You’re right touchy today, Smoke. Who twisted your tail?”

“Two-bit gunhands have a tendency to annoy me.” Smoke lifted his fresh mug of beer with his left hand and took a sip.

“When Gus gets up from the dirt, he’s gonna kill you, Smoke.”

“He’ll try.” Smoke turned his back to the gunfighter and sipped his beer.

Blackjack moved to a table and sat down, ordering a bottle.

The drummer was scribbling frantically in a notebook; he wanted to be sure to get all this down. He might write a book about this.

Gus was helped back into the barroom, his mouth bloody and his eyes wild with hate and fury. Smoke turned
to watch him, his right hand by his side.

Gus shook himself away from the men on each side of him and faced Smoke. He was so mad he was trembling.

“Gus,” Blackjack warned. ”Back off, son. This is not the time.”

“Go to hell!” Gus said, without taking his eyes off of Smoke.

“You better do what he says, boy,” Cheyenne told him. “You’re just about to step off into where the waters is deep . and dark.”

“You go to hell, too, old man!”

Cheyenne shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody can ever say I didn’t try to warn you about the currents.”

“You ready, Jensen?” Gus asked.

“I’m not finished with my beer, Gus. I would suggest you get you a cool one and calm down some.”

“You, by God, don’t tell me what to do, Smoke.”

“I’m just trying to save your life, Gus.”

Gus cussed him. "Here or in the street, Jensen?”

“It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me, Gus.” Smoke sat his beer mug down on the plank.

Gus reached for his guns.

Smoke’s left-hand Colt roared and bucked as his cross-draw flashed.

The slugs hit Gus in the chest and belly, doubling him over. He stumbled back and grabbed onto a table’s edge for support. He finally managed to drag iron just as Smoke fired again, the .44 slug slamming into his chest. The light began to fade around him as the men in the barroom took on a ghostly appearance, drifting into double images as the sounds of the pale rider grew louder in his ears.

Gus looked down at his hands. What had happened to his guns? His hands were empty. But he had drawn them. He was sure of that.

Gus sat down heavily in a chair and the legs broke under the sudden weight, spilling him to the floor. The last thing he would hear was the sounds of the pale rider’s horse galloping closer. And finally, the feel of that cold and bony hand reaching down to touch his shoulder.

“Did anybody even see Jensen draw?” the drummer asked, his voice filled with awe. “Jesus God, I didn’t.”

The young man whom Cheyenne had bopped on the noggin with the barrel of his Colt finally sat up and moaned, both hands to his head. “What happened?” he asked.

“Gus finally saw the critter,” Blackjack told him.

The young man looked up into the cold eyes of Smoke Jensen. Right then, and unfortunately for him, only for a very brief moment, did the old homeplace farm back in Minnesota pull at him slightly.

The young man who had just recently taken to calling himself the Pecos Kid pushed those thoughts out of his head and began to think about how he could kill Smoke Jensen. Yeah ... the man who killed Smoke Jensen would be famous all over the world. He’d have fame and money and all the women anybody could ever want. So he very wrongly thought.

Smoke stared down at him from the bar. His words momentarily chilled the Pecos Kid. “Put it out of your head, kid. Don’t even think about it.”

Smoke turned and Walt and Cheyenne followed him out of the bar and into the general store.

When Smoke was well out of earshot, Pecos said, “I bet I could take him.”

Blackjack just shook his head in disgust.

It appeared that the bitterly cold and long winter had finally given way to spring as the warming winds began to blow. The syringa began to bloom, as did the balsam and lupine, and the marsh marigold and blue columbine lent their hues and fragrances to the cacophony of color. Harrison had ridden to the store by the lake and came back with bad news.

“That Clint Perkins done struck agin, Mr. Walt. This time he killed a man over on the Little Malad. Some big landowner over thataway.”

Walt kicked at a rock and cussed.

“And that ain’t all. Jud Vale—had to be him—done upped the ante on Smoke’s head. Five thousand dollars to the man who kills him.”

Smoke had walked up, listening. The news came as no surprise to him.

Walt looked at him. “Jud knows that with you out of the picture this whole operation would fold. Me and Cheyenne and Dolittle and Harrison could hold on for a time, but not for long. Maybe it’s time for me to sell out and move on; take Doreen and Mickey with me and the old woman and just get gone.”

“Is that what you want to do, Walt?”

“Hell, no!” There was considerable heat in the man’s voice.

“Then don’t. But here’s what we can do: round up the rest of your herds and sell off the older stuff. That would take some strain off the range. We could use the boys to drive them to the railhead at Preston. Me and Cheyenne would stay here on the place with you to make sure Jud’s men don’t burn the house down.”

Walt thought for a moment, then nodded his head. “All right, let’s do ’er.”

Leaving Cheyenne in charge of the roundup, Smoke saddled up and headed for the nearest telegraph office to find a buyer for the cattle. He did not take the normally traveled roads or trails, but instead cut across country, blazing his own trail.

Smoke wasn’t worried about the men Jud Vale had hired. Most of them were stand-up, look-you-in-eye gunfighters. They had a reputation to defend or to build, and back-shooters they were not. It was the bounty hunters that Smoke knew would be coming in who worried him.

That scum had no scruples or morals or anything that even remotely resembled those attributes.

And they would be coming in once that five thousand dollar ante on his head was spread about the country; that would not take long to accomplish.

He made the ride to the wire office with no trouble, and sent wires out until he found a buyer who knew him and was interested in the cattle. He made arrangements over the wires to meet the shipment at the railhead with a bankdraft.

He walked over to the hotel and checked in, then got himself a bath and a shave and changed clothes while his range clothing was being washed, dried, and ironed. Then he headed for a cafe for a meal.

Smoke was a handsome, striking-looking man, tall and muscular, and he turned many a female head as he strode up the boardwalk, spurs jingling. And he caused many a man to step back as he passed, for even though Smoke did not know it, and would have scoffed at it if someone had told him so, there was clear and present danger in those cold brown eyes. And by the way he wore his guns, there was no denying that he was very comfortable with those Colts, and knew how to use them. And more importantly, would use them.

He had changed into dark pin-stripe trousers over his polished boots, a white shirt with black siring tie, and a leather vest.

He decided to have a beer before he ate his lunch and pushed open the batwings of the saloon, stepping inside.

The bounty hunters and the gunfighter locked eyes.

John Wills, Dave Bennett, Shorty Watson, and Lefty Cassett were sharing a bottle and playing poker.

Smoke told the barkeep he wanted a beer and walked over to their table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Deal me in, boys.”

“You got a lot of brass on your butt, Jensen,” Lefty told him. “Who the hell invited you?”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Lefty. Makes me think I smell bad. And to think I just spent good money to have a bath and a shave.”

“Very funny, Smoke,” Wills said. “Notice how we’re all laughing.”

“I can see that. You boys gonna deal me in or not?”

“Closed game, Jensen,” Shorty told him. “Just like you’re gonna be soon. Closed. Like in a box.”

They thought that was funny. Hysterically so. Smoke smiled with their laughter. They stopped laughing when they heard the almost inaudible click of a hammer being earred back.

“Is the joke over so soon?” Smoke asked, an innocent expression on his face. “Keep your hands where I can see them, boys.”

“You can’t shoot us like this, Jensen,” Wills said, a very hopeful note in his voice. “That’d be murder!”

“And you law-abiding boys certainly don’t hold with murder, now, do you?” Smoke’s voice was low-pitched and deadly.

Lefty softly cursed Smoke.

“Boys,” Smoke told them, as he tapped the barrel of his Colt on Shorty’s knee, that action bringing a sheen of sweat on the man’s face. “I’m going to have myself a nice quiet drink and then I’m going to the cafe for something to eat. While I’m having my drink, you boys finish yours. While I’m in the cafe, I’d better see you scum ride out of town and don’t come back while I’m here.”

“And if we don’t?” Dave Bennett challenged.

“I’ll come out of the cafe with both hands full of Colts and one thing on my mind: killing all four of you.”

Wills swallowed hard and said, “This ain’t like you, Smoke. You’ve usually had to be pushed into a gunfight.”

“I came out here for a vacation. Soon as I crossed over into Idaho Territory, folks started pushing me. Now I’m pushing back. Keep another thought in mind, boys: if you ride out of here heading east, I’ll know what side you’re on.”

“And ...?” Shorty asked.

“I will officially declare open season on bounty hunters.”

Smoke holstered his Colt, much to the relief of all lthe men around the table. He stood up, turned his back to the men, and walked to the bar, ordering a drink.

Lefty exhaled slowly. “We got some talkin’ to do, boys. We cross the Bear headin’ east. This here job ain’t gonna be no cakewalk.”