Aaron saw what he meant. The usual local clientele had been run out, or had not come in at all. Aaron walked up to him. “What brings you out tonight, Les?”
Norton rolled his eyes. “My mother-in-law is visiting. ’Nuf said?”
With his establishment filled with heavily armed hard cases, Tucker had to force a chuckle. “How long is she going to be here?”
“A week. Or more. There’s no telling with her, Aaron.” Again he sighed. Then he broached the subject both of them feared. “I thought the new sheriff was working at clearing out this riffraff?”
“He is. Has to rest some time. And eat a meal.” Aaron Tucker’s admiration for Smoke Jensen had not diminished. “I hear the schoolmarm invited him to supper.”
A chair went back with a loud bang when the back struck the floor. “Barkeep, these cards are greasy. You been storin’ ’em with the free lunch?” growled one of the hard cases. “Bring us a new deck.”
Fred Barnes shrugged and made a helpless gesture. “That is a new deck.”
Aaron gave a nervous glance. “I think we need Sheriff Jensen. Les, will you—ah—will you go prevail upon him to come down here?”
Mayor Norton pushed away from the far end of the bar. “Sure, Aaron. The sooner we rid our town of this sort, the better. It won’t take long to get him.”
Smoke Jensen and Virginia Parkins sat in her parlor, sipping coffee and letting their meal settle. Smoke felt a minor discomfort at her proximity. He should have brought someone along, maybe the mayor. Or, Ginny should have provided a third party. He felt a twinge of relief, then, when a knock sounded at the door. Ginny excused herself to answer. She came back with the mayor in tow.
Lester Norton did not waste a moment. “Mr. Jensen, it is certain that trouble is brewing at the Sorry Place. There are a number of ruffians gathered there. They’ve made talk of bushwhacking you.”
Frowning, Smoke Jensen came to his boots. “They just lost their chance. Excuse me, Miss Ginny, it appears I have more to do before I can settle down at the jail.”
Virginia came to him, put an admonitory hand on his forearm. “Be careful, Smoke. Surely they will be reasonable. Like those others who left town on their own?”
“I wouldn’t . . . ,” Mayor Norton started to blurt, only to stop at the hard look on Smoke’s face.
Smoke filled the gap. “What the mayor means is that he wouldn’t worry if he were you.” Then to Norton, “Shall we go? This shouldn’t take long.”
Virginia still looked concerned and unconvinced. “Please—let me know how it comes out.”
Smoke smiled. “I’ll stop by before making my last rounds.” He started for the door.
“We’ll have pie,” Ginny called after him.
It had all been worked out while the mayor had been absent from the saloon. The four men who had been playing cards now stood at the rear of the room, their backs to the wall. The five hard cases who lined the bar had spread out. They eyed the batwing doors intently, marking the time. Aaron Turner had gone behind the bar. One hand hovered over a hefty bung starter.
Mayor Norton entered the saloon first, nearly precipitating a fusillade. Two of the gunmen at the rear actually unlimbered their six-guns. Smoke Jensen came in a moment behind the mayor, his .45 Colt leading the way. He shot first one, then the other man who had drawn their weapons. Deliberately aimed high, the heavy slugs slammed into their shoulders. Two Colt Frontier models thudded in the sawdust on the roughhewn floor.
In the next second, Smoke Jensen roughly shoved Lester Norton to the floor, and the air rocked to the roar of eight blazing six-guns. Smoke shot one of the trash at the bar and dived into a roll that took him halfway across the room. He came up with bullets cutting the air to both sides and over his head. Another quick shot and a would-be ambusher went down screaming, his kneecap shattered. Smoke raised his six-gun and fired again.
A fifth saddle tramp groaned and left the fight, shot through the right side an inch above his hip bone. Smoke dived behind an overturned table and expended his last two rounds. Another man in the back of the room sprang backward and collided discordantly with the upright piano. Smoke’s final slug destroyed half of the top octave. The strings pinged musically as the lead snapped them.
Smoke holstered his right-hand revolver and reached for his second Peacemaker, worn high on his left side, butt forward and slanted across his hard, flat stomach. A slug from one of the hard cases at the bar clipped the hat from his head. He returned the favor with a bullet that struck the face of the cylinder in the offending six-gun.
Hot needles of pain shot through the shooter’s hand, and he let go of his damaged weapon. Another tried to work his way around to Smoke’s blind side. He made three side steps along the bar and stopped suddenly when Aaron Turner rapped him smartly on the top of his head with a bung starter. The gunhawk crashed to the floor with a meteor shower behind his eyes.
Alone in a reign of such fury, the remaining hard case chose wisdom over pain. He reversed the revolver and offered it to Smoke butt first. Far too wise in the ways of gunhandling, Smoke did not fall for that one. Instead he gestured toward the green baize top of a poker table.
“Lay it down there. Do it or I’ll shoot you anyway.” Smoke turned to where the mayor remained sprawled on the floor. “Now, Mr. Mayor, if you’d be so kind as to help me take this garbage out of here and lock them up.”
“What’s the charge?” complained the one with the red, swollen, throbbing hand.
“Assaulting a peace officer, for a start. Maybe the territorial attorney can make attempted murder stick.”
Fear loosened the brigand’s tongue. “No, man, I swear, no. We didn’t intend to kill you, just bust you up a little and run you out of town. Nobody said a thing about killing. I swear it.”
Coolly, Aaron Turner put in his contribution. “He lies.” He nodded to the one Smoke had killed. “That one stood right here and said they would bury you come tomorrow. They all thought it a good idea. The mouthy one there said something about drilling you tonight and planting you in the morning.”
Smoke Jensen stopped in his roundup of the casualties. “Say, I wanted to thank you for your timely assistance. You’re pretty handy with that thing.”
Turner looked down at the bung starter in his hand and back at Smoke. He smiled shyly, and his ears colored. “Oh, this. I get a lot of practice.”
Smoke nodded. “Might be you won’t have near as much for some while.” With that he and the mayor started off with their prisoners.
Before making his last rounds of the business district of Muddy Gap, Smoke Jensen returned to the small house owned by Ginny Parkins. He found it dark. Odd, he thought. She said we’d have pie when I returned. He raised one hand and rapped knuckles lightly on the front door. Silence answered him. He knocked again, a bit louder.
A floor board creaked behind the closed portal and Smoke heard a rustling. “Ginny, is that you? Did I disturb you?”
“Go away.”
“What? I thought . . .”
“I heard the gunshots. I heard it all. I know what that means for you to be here now. Someone else didn’t survive. I’m sorry, Smoke. But violence, and those who cause it, are not a part of my life. Now, goodbye.”
“Uh—yeah. I—ah—goodbye, Ginny. Thank you for a delicious supper.”
Smoke trudged away, thinking gloomy thoughts about schoolteachers. His own dear Sally had had similar opinions when first they had met. At least this time, he had no one to woo and win.
Six
Reno Jim Yurian and his gang sat around a large table in the office of what had once been a prosperous, if short-lived mine. A good twenty years earlier, Arapaho warriors, angered at seeing the belly of their Earth Mother plundered, had attacked and killed the six men working the claim. Because the mine shaft was accessed from a small shed attached to the office, the Indians did not burn it down out of religious awe. Now a new wealth visited the abandoned structure. Each of the outlaws had a stack of coins and cu
rrency in front of him.
To the casual observer, they could have been preparing for a poker game. In fact, Reno Jim had only seconds before finished the distribution of each man’s share of their most recent forays into the criminal life. It came to quite a tidy amount. As one, they began to count the total. Reno Jim waited until they had finished and he had their full attention.
“That’s only a start, boys. We’ll move the cattle and horses at the same time.”
“Won’t that cost a lot to feed the cattle so long, boss?” Prine Gephart asked.
Reno Jim bit the tip from a skinny, black cigar and lighted it before answering. “Not really. They’re on graze and there’s plenty of it. When we have the horses, we’ll move them at once. First, though, there is the problem of this fast gun running the horse herd. If he wasn’t bullin’ Colin here.” He clapped the wounded brigand on the shoulder, and Colin Fike winced. “We have a serious obstacle in our way. And his name is Smoke Jensen.”
Early the next morning, Smoke Jensen left the sheriff’s office and paid a brief breakfast call on the town marshal. Inside the Iron Kettle, Grover Larsen glared across the red-checked tablecloth at the badge adorning Smoke Jensen’s chest. Somehow he could not manage to meet the amber-flecked eyes. His voice was surly, uncertain.
“What did you drag me down here for?”
“I need your cooperation, Marshal Larsen.”
Suspicion and unease briefly lighted Larsen’s flat, gray eyes. “ ‘Cooperation’? What kind?”
“The Harbinsons have a printing press over at the general store, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do. Why?”
“I want you to come over there with me. I intend to post guns out of town. It would help if I had your name and signature on the flyers also.”
Grover Larsen considered this while he chewed a bite of ham. “That doesn’t sound like too much to ask.”
“Then you’ll do it?” Smoke watched as Larsen shrugged slightly and speared another piece of ham.
Another shrug and the jaws worked methodically. Grover Larsen swallowed and spoke softly. “You bought me breakfast. I suppose it’s the least I can do. Besides, it’s my duty. Mind, though, I’m opposed to interfering with a man’s right to carry a gun.”
Smoke smiled, satisfied that there might be some grit left in the man after all. “So am I. I intend only to post against nonresidents. The citizens of Muddy Gap, and those known to be local folks, will not be affected by it.” Then Smoke dropped the other boot that Larsen had been waiting for. “That’s why I need your help in enforcing it. You know who belongs and who don’t. Will you do it, Marshal?”
Larsen’s worried frown turned to a deep scowl. “I didn’t count on that. There’s some rough characters out there.”
“That’s why I’ll see you have someone to back your play. While you relieve any strangers of their guns, they can cover them.”
Cocking his head to one side, Larsen mopped at an egg yolk with a fluffy biscuit. “Might work after all. Yep. Let’s finish up and we’ll go see young Eb Harbinson.”
A black mourning band showed prominently on the sleeve of Eb Harbinson’s shirt. He seemed reluctant to dig into the cast type and dirty the press to print so small a run. He listened to what Smoke wanted, nodded to show the ability of his equipment to do the job, and rubbed the palms of his hands on his trouser legs.
“We planned to start a newspaper. But there aren’t enough people in town yet to justify the expense.” He came to his feet from the chair in front of a rolltop desk. “I suppose printing these flyers is a better use of the press than gathering dust. But, if you want signatures, you’ll either have to sign each one separately, or I’ll have you do it on a blank plate and etch around them.”
“How long will that take?” Smoke asked.
Eb rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I’d say you could have them late tomorrow.
“Not soon enough. We’ll sign them.”
“How many do you want, Sheriff?”
Smoke calculated aloud. “I want one in each business in town, on the church and school, also. And two for each end of town. A few spares in case someone takes exception to them. Say twenty-five, thirty.”
Eb nodded his understanding. “Fine, I can have them ready by ten o’clock this morning.”
After leaving the general mercantile, Smoke Jensen started his rounds of the saloons, to hustle the unwanted element out of town. The first of the unsavory milieu he encountered were Bert Toller, Quint Cress, and Big Sam Peiper. The trio of fair-to-middling gunfighters stood at the bar in the Golden Boot tormenting the swamper. The gray-haired, older man toiled to put down fresh sawdust after the previous night’s cleanup and moping.
“Hey, boy, yer hand’s shakin’ so much you got sawdust on my boots,” Quint Cress complained.
“What you need is a drink, old-timer,” Big Sam told him through a nasty chuckle.
Harvey Gates looked up with the eyes of a cornered animal. “No, sir. I done gave up drinkin’.”
Cress twisted his face into a mean sneer. “Oh, yeah? When? After they invented the funnel?”
“Please, fellers, I’ve—I’ve got work to do.”
Quint Cress crossed to the cowed man and yanked the bucket of sawdust from his grasp. “You get sawdust on my boots again an’ they’ll be plantin’ you before sundown.”
A steel-hard voice came from the doorway. “That’s the last time you do that.”
Cress whirled, a shower of yellowish wood chips flying from the rim of the bucket. “Oh, yeah? Who says so?”
“I do. Sheriff Jensen. Now, return the bucket to the man and let him get on with his work.”
From farther down the bar, Big Sam spoke hesitantly. “Uh—Quint, I think that might be a good idea. This be Smoke Jensen.”
A crazed glint shone in the eyes of Quint Cress. “You think I don’t know? I don’t care a damn, either. I say he’s not as hot as he’s put up to be.” He dropped the bucket to the floor and started for the door. “I’ll be waitin’ for you outside, Jensen.”
Smoke let him go. He turned to the remaining pair and addressed Big Sam. “You seem to have more sense than your friend. This town is off limits to you and your kind. So, I’ll ask you politely. Gather up whatever you brought with you, mount up and ride out. You have fifteen minutes.”
Big Sam Peiper made a show of considering that for a moment; then his voice rang with new strength. “I don’t mind you raggin’ Quint some. He needs tooken down a notch. But, you jist asked something we can’t do. Why, we’d be the laughing stock of the whole territory. No, sir, we ain’t gonna go.”
With that, he and Bert Toller, who had said nothing so far, dropped hands to the grips of their six-guns. Smoke let Sam Peiper, whom he figured more for a mouth than a shootist, get his long-barreled .44 Colt clear of leather, choosing instead to take on Toller first.
A good choice, he soon discovered as Toller moved with a blur, his six-gun snaked out and on the rise by the time Smoke snapped his elbow to his right side and leveled the .45 Peacemaker in his fist. The hammer fell, and a puff of cloth and dust flew from the front of Toller’s shirt. A dark hole appeared some three inches above the belt Toller wore. A second hole popped into place directly above it a fraction of a second later, to form a perfect figure eight.
Immediately, Smoke swung the smoking barrel of his Colt to Big Sam Peiper. Big Sam stared at his partner and watched him die. Bert Toller had barely hit the floor when Sam let out a despairing shout and bolted for the door.
“No!” he screamed. “I ain’t gonna die.” Wildly he threw a shot at Smoke over his shoulder.
Smoke had dropped to a crouch when Big Sam started his direction, so the shot went high, to spang off the stovepipe and crack the plaster behind. Smoke fired his third round as Big Sam hit the batwing doors. Sam Peiper crashed through the swinging partitions and onto the boardwalk, as blood streamed down his thigh. Smoke Jensen came right behind him.
Limping, Big Sam Peipe
r headed toward Quint Cress. “Ga’damn, he shot me, Quint. It hurts real bad.”
Cress looked surprised. “You ain’t never been shot before? What kinda gunfighter are you?”
“Naw. Ain’t been shot. I always was faster.”
Quint Cress shook his head. “Sam, Sam, get out of the way, let me finish this amateur.”
Big Sam staggered in a tight circle, raising his Smith American. “No. I’m gonna do it. Nobody puts a hole in Big Sam Peiper.”
He faced Smoke Jensen now, who much to the consternation of Big Sam had an amused expression on his face. With careful deliberation, his own visage screwed into a grimace of pain, Big Sam raised his revolver. To his dying instant, he knew he had never seen Smoke Jensen draw his Colt. Yet, all of a sudden he saw the yellow-orange bloom and a thin trail of smoke start from its muzzle.
Then a bright white light dazzled him, and immense pain erupted inside his head. All feeling left his hands and feet. The alabaster radiance swelled and enveloped him. For a fraction of a second, Big Sam Peiper saw a tiny black dot form at the center of the sphere. Unfeeling, he toppled to the ground, the back of his head blown away, and in a twinkling, the blackness overwhelmed him.
Quint Cress stared in horror. No one could be that fast. Hell, Big Sam already had his six-gun cocked before this Smoke Jensen drew. For the first time, the bravado deserted Quint. Yet, he knew inexorably that the hand had to be played out to the end. He swallowed hard to remove the lump in his throat and dropped his hand to the grips of his Colt. Jensen, his head wreathed in powder smoke, could not possibly see him draw.
Wrong. Quint Cress had his Frontier Colt free of leather and on the way up when an invisible fist slammed into his stomach. He started to double over in reflex, only to be straightened up by another enormous pain in his chest. He wound up on his back, staring up at Smoke Jensen, who held his Peacemaker in a steady, level grasp.
Ordeal of the Mountain Man Page 6