.44 SHOWDOWN
The two riders eyeballed Smoke Jensen suspiciously as they neared where he sat his horse, his right hand resting near the butt of his .44.
“You boys look like you been riding hard,” Smoke said.
“You figure that’s any of your business?” one asked.
“Just trying to be friendly. Heading down to the settlement, boys?”
The pair reined up. “You got a nose problem, you know that, mister?” the second one said.
“I don’t have the problems you boys are about to have,” Smoke said, turning his horse to give him a better field of fire.
The outlaws grabbed for their guns and Smoke emptied two saddles. The bigger of the two hit the ground and tried to lift his pistol. Smoke shot him between the eyes, shifted the muzzle of his .44 and put another slug in the second man’s chest.
“Enjoy all the comforts of hell, boys,” he said softly.
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CODE OF THE MOUNTAIN MAN
William W Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.pinnaclebooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
.44 SHOWDOWN
BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Copyright Page
I acknowledge the Furies, I believe in them, I have heard the disastrous beating of their wings.
Theodore Dreiser
Chapter One
No one knew why the outlaws chose to attack the town of Big Rock. It was a very stupid thing for outlaws to attack any western town. For those who inhabited the towns of the West were veterans of the War Between the States, veterans of Indian wars, buffalo hunters—men who had lived with guns all their lives. But Big Rock, located in the high-up country of northern Colorado, was known to be off-limits to anyone who sought trouble.
And most trouble-hunters were as careful to avoid Big Rock as they were to keep from sticking their hands into a nest of rattlers.
Perhaps the outlaws who struck Big Rock that day hit it because the West was taming somewhat. The bad old days were not gone entirely, but they were calming down. Maybe the outlaws felt they could pull it off. They would have fared much better had they pulled off their boots and stuck their bare feet into a bucket filled with scorpions.
“Good morning, Abigal,” Sally Jensen spoke to the woman behind the counter.
“Good morning, Sally,” the shopkeeper’s wife said. “And how are things out at the Sugarloaf?”
The Sugarloaf was the name of their ranch. ‘They’ being Smoke and Sally Jensen.
Both women turned at the sounds of hooves pounding the earth. A lot of horses. Sounded like fifty or more.
“What on earth? . . .” Sally said.
A bullet busted a window of the store and tore through cans of peaches. A second bullet hit Sally on the arm and knocked her down. A child and her dog were trampled under the steel-shod hooves of the galloping horses.
It didn’t take the rampaging outlaws long to discover they’d struck the wrong town as men reached for their pistols and rifles and emptied a few saddles. They raced out of town, whooping and hollering and shooting. But the damage had been done.
“Four people dead,” Judge Proctor said grimly. “Including a little girl. Half a dozen more wounded. Couple of them seriously. Somebody ride for the Sugarloaf and fetch Smoke. Sally’s been hit.”
“Lord God Amighty!” a citizen breathed. “Them outlaws don’t know it, but they just opened the gates to Hell!”
* * *
He waited until he was absolutely certain that Sally was not seriously injured. A neighbor lady would stay with her, tending to her. The hands who worked the Sugarloaf range would make damn sure no one tried to attack the ranch.
“Now you be careful,” Sally told her husband. “And don’t you worry about me. I’m just fine.”
He bent down and kissed her lips. “I’ll see you when I get back.” He walked out of the house and stepped into the saddle.
Sally made no attempt to dissuade her husband. This was the West, and a man had to do what a man had to do. They were bound by unwritten yet strictly obeyed codes. Especially a man like Smoke Jensen.
He rode a big buckskin that he’d caught wild in the mountains and gentled. Because of the way he’d worked with the horse, and the bond that had been established between horse and rider, Smoke was the only human the buckskin would allow on its back.
Smoke was tall, with wide shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and lean hipped. His wrists were huge, and his big hands were as powerful as they could be gentle. His hair was ash-blond, cut short, and his eyes were a cold, unforgiving brown that rarely showed any emotion except when with his wife and children.
He wore two guns, the left-hand gun worn butt-forward, the right-hand gun low and tied down. He was just as fast with one gun as he was with the other. Some said he was the fastest man with a gun who ever lived, but he never sought out or bragged that he was a gunfighter. He was just a man one did not push. He carried a long-bladed knife that he usually shaved with on the trail. Or fought with, whichever was the most important at the time. He’d been raised among old mountain men and some called him the last mountain man. His clothing was earth-tones, his hat brown and flat-brimmed. A Winchester rifle was in the saddle boot.
Leadville was behind him and the Gunnison River just a few hours ahead. He would make the small town just about dark. There was a hotel there, and there he would bed down for the night.
He was in no hurry. He knew he would find the outlaws that had ridden into Big Rock and shot it up, killing and wounding innocent people. If their intentions had been to rob the bank, they had failed miserably. But they had left behind them a bloody main street and sorrow in the hearts of those who had to bury their dead and watch the suffering of those wounded by th
e indiscriminate bullets.
The sheriff of Big Rock, Monte Carson, had been wounded during the bloody battle, and could not lead the posse that went after the outlaws. Went after them, but finally had to return empty-handed.
The man on the mean-eyed buckskin didn’t need a posse. Didn’t want to be hampered by one. He knew the difference between right and wrong, and he sure as hell didn’t need some fancy-talking lawyer to explain it. As far as he was concerned, lawyers should stick to writing wills and drawing up deeds and such. Keep their noses out of a man’s private business. That was part of the problems facing the world today: too damn many lawyers.
He had kissed his wife goodbye, provisioned up, and ridden out from their ranch in the high lonesome of northern Colorado. Alone.
Nobody attacked Big Rock. Nobody. Not and got away with it. Smoke didn’t believe in cowboys hoorahing a town. People got hurt doing that. A gun was not a toy, and when a man grew up, he put boyhood behind him and accepted the responsibilities of being a man.
Smoke had helped found Big Rock; his blood and sweat and time and effort were ingrained in the streets and buildings. And those outlaws had shot his wife. Nobody shot his wife. Ever. Not and lived to brag about it.
One lawyer, straight from the East and new to Big Rock, had said the outlaws probably had a poor childhood, and that was what caused them to behave in such a barbarous manner. They really shouldn’t be blamed for their actions.
Smoke had slapped him down in the street, jerked him up by the seat of his britches and his shirt collar and dumped him in a horse trough.
Preacher Morrow had tried to talk him out of tracking the outlaws. So had Dr. Colton Spalding and some of the others in the town.
“It’s the 1880s, Smoke,” Judge Proctor said. “You just can’t take the law into your own hands anymore.”
The big man who stood by the big buckskin looked at the judge. Judge Proctor backed up, away from those terribly hard eyes.
“I’ll be back,” Smoke said, then swung into the saddle.
* * *
He swung down from the saddle in front of the livery stable in the small town by the Gunnison River and led the buckskin inside, stripping the saddle and bridle from him and stabling the animal.
“Feed him good,” he told the boy who had appeared out of the gloom of the cavernous building. “Rub him down. Give him a bag of grain.” He looked at the boy. “You sleep in this place?”
“Yes, sir. I got me a room back yonder.” He pointed. The man looked familiar, but the boy just couldn’t place him. He took the coin the man offered him. It was a silver dollar.
“Don’t you have a home, boy?”
“Yes, sir. But my ma lets me stay here during the night so’s I can earn extra money to help out.”
“I’ll leave my saddle here. You look after my gear.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Any strangers in town?”
“Three men rode in late this afternoon. They was too cheap to use the livery. They picketed their horses down by the river. They looked like hardcases. Guns tied down low. They just looked mean to me.”
“How’d they smell?”
“Sir?”
“Did you get close enough to them to smell them?”
“Yes, sir. I did, come to think of it. They sure did smell bad.”
“That’s not the only thing that’s really bad about them. Did they bathe?”
The boy looked at the tall man with the wide shoulders and the massive arms that bulged his shirt with muscles. “Bathe? Ah . . . no, sir.”
“So they still stink?”
“Ah ... yes, sir. I reckon so, sir.”
“I feel sorry for the undertaker.”
The tall man with the two guns walked out of the livery stable, moving like a great hunting cat, his spurs jingling as he moved. He carried his rifle with him as he crossed the wide street and walked toward the hotel.
The boy hung a nose-bag on the buckskin and began currying the horse as he ate a bait of grain. The boy suddenly stopped his brushing as a coldness washed over him. “Oh, my God!” he whispered, finally placing the big man with the cold eyes. “Oh, my God!”
“Good evening, sir!” the desk clerk called. “It certainly is a quiet evening in our town.”
It won’t be for long, Smoke thought, as he signed the register.
The desk clerk looked at the name on the register and gripped the edge of the counter. His mouth dropped open and worked up and down like a fish. “Ah, bah, bah, bah ...” He cleared his throat. “The dining room just closed, sir. But I can get you a plate of food sent up to your room if you wish.”
“I wish. Thank you.”
“We’re a very modern hostelry, sir. We have the finest in up to date water closets.”
“Good. Give me the key to my room, have the tub in the facilities filled with hot water, and put a fresh bar of soap in there. Lots of towels. I like lots of clean towels.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. And I’m sure that room I assigned you has fresh sheets. As a matter of fact, I know it does. It’s such a pleasure having you here with . . .”
Those cold eyes stopped his chatter. It was like looking into a frozen Hell.
The tall man turned and walked up the stairs.
The desk clerk beat on the bell until a man appeared. “Get the marshal—right now! Tell him to deputize the boys. We got big trouble.” Or somebody has, he thought, recalling those three hardcases who rode into town that day.
When the tall man walked down the stairs, four of the men the marshal had deputized took one look at him and exited the lobby, fading into the night. They wanted no part of this hombre. They weren’t cowards; they were all good, solid men who had used a gun on more than one occasion against outlaws or Indians. But they were intelligent men.
“You got business in this town, mister?” the marshal asked.
“Oh, yes,” Smoke replied. “But it’s my business.”
“Maybe I’ll make it mine,” the marshal stood his ground.
“That’s your job. But I have a better suggestion.”
“I’m listening.”
“Go home. Make yourself a fresh pot of coffee. Talk to your wife and family. Tell your men to go home and gather their families around them. Get the citizens off the street.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“I didn’t give you any orders.”
The marshal nodded his head. That was a fact. What Jensen was doing was giving him an out, to save face. The desk clerk was all ears, hanging on every word. Whatever happened here would be all over town in ten minutes. “I’m not afraid of you, Jensen.”
The desk clerk gasped.
“I can see that. You’re a good man, Marshal. The town should be proud to have you behind that star, and the city council should give you a raise.”
The marshal cut his eyes. He was alone. His newly deputized men had gone. “Come to think of it, my wife just baked a fresh apple pie. It’d still be warm.”
“Man shouldn’t pass that up,” Smoke said. “Might insult his wife. My wife was insulted the other day when the gang those punks in the saloon was ridin’ with shot her.”
The marshal’s eyes narrowed. No man harmed a woman in the West. Just to jostle one on the street was grounds for a good butt-whipping. “She bad hurt?”
“Caught her in the arm. They killed a little girl.”
“You have a good evening, Mr. Jensen.”
“Thank you, Marshal. I plan to.”
The marshal left the hotel lobby. The palms of his hands were sweaty. He wiped them on his britches. He was a good, tough lawman, having gunned down Bad Jack Summers on the main street of this very town only a few months back. But Bad Jack couldn’t shine Smoke Jensen’s boots. The marshal sighed. Come to think of it, a wedge of pie would taste mighty good.
Smoke stepped out of the lobby and moved to the shadows, standing for a moment. He worked his guns in and out of leather a few times. The grips of the .44s s
eemed to leap into his big hands. He stepped off the boardwalk and into the street, walking to the saloon. He stood for a moment at the batwings, looking in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the lantern light of the interior. He pushed open the batwings, stepped inside, and walked to the end of the bar.
“Whiskey,” he told the pale-faced barkeep. “Out of the good bottle. I don’t like snake heads.”
“Yes, sir.”
Some people who made their own whiskey would drop snake heads into the barrel for added flavor.
Smoke was not much for strong drink, but he did enjoy a sip every now and then. The saloon was empty except for Smoke, the barkeep, and three unshaven and dirty men seated around a table next to a wall.
The barkeep poured a shot glass full. “That’s the best in the house, sir.”
“Thank you.” Smoke did not touch his liquor. “Where’s all your business this evening?”
“Everybody left sort of sudden-like a few minutes ago.”
“Is that right. Well, I can sure understand why.”
“Oh?” The barkeep was getting jumpy.
“Stinks in here. Smells like a bunch of damn sorry punks whose mothers didn’t teach them to bathe regularly. Like that stinking bunch of crap over there at the table.”
That made the barkeep real nervous. He moved farther away from the tall, well-built man with the cold eyes and the big hands with flat knuckles. Fighter’s hands.
“What’s that?” one of the men at the table said.
“You heard me, punk. I said you stink.”
The man pushed back his chair and walked toward the bar, the big California spurs jangling. “You’re pushin’, mister. You ain’t got no call to say somethin’ like that.”
“I’ve been around skunks that smell better than you three,” Smoke told him. He lifted the shot glass with his left hand and took a small sip. It was good whiskey.
One of the men at the table laughed. “Take him, Bob.”
Smoke chuckled, but the sound was void of humor. “Yeah, Bob. Why don’t you take me?”
Bob looked back at his buddies. This wasn’t going like it usually did. He’d been a bully all his life, and folks usually backed up and took water when he prodded them. This tall man just laughed at him. Funny kind of laugh. Guy looked familiar, too. He’d seen that face somewheres before.
Code of the Mountain Man Page 1