Guns of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  At the Longmont Saloon they dismounted and tied their mounts to the hitching rail in front. Curly Joe, as usual, swaggered through the batwings first, trying to impress Pig Iron with his bravado.

  Pig Iron shook his head, knowing better. He’d always figured Curly Joe was a coward deep inside, like all braggarts and showoffs, and he didn’t intend to count on him for any backup.

  They walked to the bar and ordered whiskey, and were glad to see that the bottle the bartender placed in front of them actually had a label on it.

  “This has got to be better than that rotgut we been drinkin’ over at—” Curly Joe started to say. Pig Iron interrupted him with a sharp jab in the shoulder with his elbow.

  “Sh-h-h,” Pig Iron whispered. “There ain’t no need in advertising where we been stayin’, you fool.”

  Curly Joe assumed a hurt look, as if he wouldn’t have been that stupid. “I know that,” he said. “I was just gonna say that other place.”

  Pig Iron turned around and leaned back, his elbows on the bar, and surveyed the room. It was a nice saloon, furnished much better than most such places he’d been in. Almost all the tables were full, indicating it was a popular place to eat and drink. He noticed most of the people at tables were eating, not just sitting around drinking.

  “Food must be pretty good here, too,” he said.

  “Huh?” Curly Joe asked, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

  “Never mind,” Pig Iron said, realizing he’d been right—Curly Joe wasn’t going to be much help to him today. The man was dumber than a post.

  Pig Iron turned back around and asked the bartender, “Say, is Smoke Jensen around today?”

  The barman glanced around the crowded room for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Nope. Don’t see ’im.”

  “A friend told us to look him up and say howdy, but he didn’t tell us what the man looked like.”

  “You can’t miss Smoke Jensen. He’s ’bout the biggest man in town, couple’a inches over six feet, with shoulders wide as an ax handle, sandy-colored hair, an’ he’s usually wearin’ buckskins.”

  “Thanks,” Pig Iron said with a smile. “We’ll keep an eye out.”

  * * *

  Smoke and Pearlie eased out of their saddles in front of Longmont’s.

  “Damn, I’m stiff as leather been sittin’ in the sun fer too long,” Pearlie said, putting his hands in the small of his back and leaning back, trying to stretch muscles grown sore from too long in the saddle.

  Smoke rubbed his butt cheeks with a sigh. “I can see we’ve both been having it much too soft lately. I can remember the time when I could sit a saddle from dawn to dusk and not feel this sore.”

  Pearlie chuckled. “Yeah, but that was back when you was a lot younger, Smoke. You got to realize yore gettin’ older now, got to take it a mite easier than you used to.”

  “Old?” Smoke said as they pushed through the batwings. “What do you mean by that, you young whippersnapper?”

  They saw Louis Longmont sitting at his table drinking coffee and walked over to join him.

  “I mean it, Smoke. It’s ’bout time for you to get a rockin’ chair and sit on the porch all day an’ let young’uns like me an’ Cal do the hard work.”

  Louis arched an eyebrow. “What is this I hear? The redoubtable Smoke Jensen, mountain man extraordinaire, being told to seek early retirement?”

  Smoke flopped in a chair, glaring at Pearlie with mock anger. “Can you believe it, Louis? This young pup thinks I’m getting old just because I got a little saddle-sore after riding around the mountains all day.”

  Pearlie grinned. “Say, Louis. Have you got in your shipment of sarsaparilla yet?”

  “Yes, Pearlie. It arrived yesterday. Would you like some?”

  “Sure, an’ some food too, if’n you don’t mind.”

  “What is the house special today, Louis?” Smoke asked. “I’m hungry enough to eat raw bear meat.”

  “I’m sorry, Smoke. We are fresh out of bear meat. Today’s special is Steak Louie. That is a tender fillet of young beef, cut thin and marinated in white wine for twelve hours, then cooked over a low flame until it is barely seared on the outside, but still red and moist on the inside. It is served with asparagus spears, fresh corn on the cob, and a salad of assorted greens.”

  “I’ll take an order of that,” Pearlie said, licking his lips, “’cept you can leave off that asparagus. It makes my pee turn green an’ smell funny.”

  “And that bothers you, mon ami?” Louis asked, smiling.

  “Naw, it don’t bother me, but it does kind’a give me a start the next mornin’ to look down and see a green stream comin’ out.”

  “How about you, Smoke?”

  “I’ll have the lunch special also, Louis, and you can give me Pearlie’s asparagus. I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  As Louis turned to call out the order to the waiter, he saw two men approaching the table. Their expressions were hard, and so were their eyes.

  He turned back to face Smoke, reaching down and unhooking the rawhide hammer thong on the Colt at his side. “Looks like trouble approaching, Smoke.”

  “I see ’em, Louis,” Smoke said, his hand at his side undoing his hammer thong at the same time.

  As the two men approached the table, Smoke examined them closely with an appraising eye. One was tall, over six feet, and looked to be built well, all muscle and no fat. From the scar tissue on his cheeks and his flattened, misshapen ears and gnarled knuckles, Smoke knew he’d been a professional fighter. His eyes were intelligent, and Smoke could see the man was sizing him up at the same time.

  The other man was shorter, about five feet eleven, with dark, curly hair and a face that was handsome in a weak sort of way. His eyes were cold and vacant, and it was plain he was a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill—but only if he had an edge. He had the look of a coward about him.

  When they stopped in front of the table Smoke leaned back in his chair, extending his right leg a bit to make it easier to reach for his Colt should the need arise.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Smoke said, since they were both staring at him.

  “Are you Smoke Jensen?” the tall one asked, his voice firm, with no animosity in it.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My name is Carlton, Pig Iron Carlton. I ran into an old acquaintance of yours the other day, and he said to look you up and say hello.”

  “And who was that?” Smoke asked.

  “Floyd Devers.”

  “Devers, huh? Last I heard he was in jail, waiting to be hanged for robbery and murder over in Dodge City.”

  “Not anymore. He’s out now, and he says he can’t wait to see you. He says you’re a lying, cheating, back-shooting bastard.”

  Smoke’s eyes narrowed, and the room grew quiet at the sound of those words, which in the West were almost always followed by gunfire.

  “Oh, so that’s what he says? What do you say, Mr. Carlton?”

  “I say I believe him. You look like a coward to me, Jensen. Like a man with a yellow streak down his back a mile wide.”

  Smoke sighed and stood up, knowing there was no way to avoid a confrontation now. The man had come looking to pick a fight, and that was what he was going to get.

  Smoke walked toward the door, pulling a pair of thick, black leather gloves from his waistband and putting them on.

  “Are you running away, Jensen?” the shorter, curly-haired man called out, a smirky grin on his face.

  “Nope. Just taking it outside so your friend doesn’t bleed all over Mr. Longmont’s furniture.”

  “You’re the one that’s going to bleed, Jensen,” Pig Iron said, following Smoke through the batwings.

  Smoke stopped in the street and turned to face Pig Iron. “Oh, I suspect we’re both going to bleed, Mr. Carlton, but I’ve been bloody before, and I’ve always been the last one standing when it was over.”

  Pig Iron stripped his shirt off, revealing
rows of well-sculpted muscles.

  “Jesus,” Pearlie whispered from the boardwalk, where he and Louis and the rest of the patrons of Longmont’s had gathered to watch the fight. “He looks hard as a rock.”

  “Where do you think he got the name Pig Iron?” Louis asked. “He was the fisticuffs champion of the United States for a few years.”

  “What happened? Did someone beat him?” Pearlie asked.

  “Not that I know of. He got in some trouble with the law and just disappeared.”

  “Do you think Smoke knows that?”

  Louis shrugged. “Wouldn’t make any difference to Smoke. He knew the man wanted to pick a fight, so there was no way out other than to oblige him.”

  In the street, the two men circled each other, Pig Iron’s hands up in the classic pugilist’s stance.

  “I see you used to be a professional fighter,” Smoke said, moving his head around and swinging his arms to loosen his neck and shoulder muscles.

  “That’s right,” Pig Iron said. “Over a hundred professional fights, and never lost one.”

  “Well, out here, we don’t go by the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules of fisticuffs. There’s only one rule in the West.”

  “What’s that?” asked Pig Iron.

  “There aren’t any rules,” Smoke said, leaning to the side and lashing out with his right foot.

  The toe of his boot caught Pig Iron in the solar plexus, doubling him over as his breath escaped with a whoosh.

  Smoke stepped in and swung a short left jab to Pig Iron’s head, flattening his right ear and tearing it partially off.

  Pig Iron, after two blows that would have knocked a lesser man out, stood up and danced toward Smoke, his hands in the air.

  Pig Iron’s eyes were watering, but they remained clear and focused, showing the punches hadn’t addled his brain any. It was evident he’d been hit before, and was used to taking punishment. Smoke realized he needed to end the fight as soon as possible or he was going to be in trouble.

  As Pig Iron swung a sharp, right jab, Smoke leaned back, using his momentum to soften the blow to his cheek, then hunched his right shoulder as Pig Iron swung a roundhouse left hook into him.

  The force of the blow staggered Smoke and almost knocked him off his feet. He thought again that he couldn’t afford to mess around with this man. He was much too dangerous an adversary. He had to end the fight quickly, in any way he could.

  Pig Iron danced in, trying to follow up his advantage while Smoke was still off-balance, but Smoke stepped nimbly to the left and kicked out with his right foot into the side of Pig Iron’s knee.

  There was a loud crack as the cartilage in the knee snapped and gave way. Pig Iron yelped in pain and went down on one knee, while Smoke stepped in and swung a right upper cut to his chin. The blow lifted Pig Iron up onto both feet again, snapping his head back.

  Smoke quickly stepped in close and, almost faster than the eye could follow, peppered Pig Iron’s stomach with rapid-fire blow after blow.

  Pig Iron doubled over, blood streaming from his smashed lips and torn ear, both hands holding his abdomen. He was completely defenseless, and looked up out of the corner of his eye with his head tilted, waiting for Smoke to finish it.

  Instead, Smoke took off his bandanna and dipped it in a nearby horse trough. He handed it to Pig Iron, saying, “Better put some pressure on your mouth ’fore you bleed to death.”

  On the boardwalk, Curly Joe, seeing Pig Iron was beaten, put his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  He froze when he felt a gun barrel pressed against his temple and heard the hammer eared back. A soft voice said in his ear, “Unless you want your brains spread all over the street, you’d better unhand that pistol.”

  He glanced around and saw the gambler, Louis Longmont, smiling over the sights of his Colt. “I would dearly love for you to give me a reason to fire this. I haven’t had to kill a man for over a month now, and I am getting out of practice,” Louis said, the hardness in his eyes belying the grin on his lips.

  Curly Joe pulled his hand away from his pistol and crossed his arms over his chest, fear-sweat springing out on his forehead while a fine tremor made his hands shake.

  Monte Carson walked up to Smoke, where he stood breathing hard next to Pig Iron.

  “What’s goin’ on here, Smoke?”

  “A small difference of opinion, Monte. Nothing to get excited about.”

  “All right,” Monte called, waving his hands. “All you people, break it up. The fight’s over, so go on about your business.”

  Curly Joe wasted no time and rushed over and grabbed Pig Iron by the shoulder, having to help him walk on his ruined knee toward their horses. After he helped him get in the saddle, he jerked his horse’s head around and pointed at Smoke.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this, Jensen,” Curly Joe snarled with mock bravado.

  Smoke gave him a lazy smile. “I suspect not, mister. But you can tell Devers something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The last time I saw him, I told him if I ever laid eyes on him again I was going to kill him. That still stands.”

  As the two gunmen galloped out of town, Smoke looked at Louis. “You think our food’s ready yet, Louis? I’m still mighty hungry.”

  Pearlie pointed to Smoke’s cheek, which was cut and leaking a fine trail of blood down his face. “Maybe you ought’a have Doc take a look at that, Smoke.”

  Smoke sleeved the blood off. “It’ll heal, Pearlie. I’ve bled before, and I’ll probably bleed again. Let’s go eat.”

  11

  In the hotel room where Cal was recuperating, Sally looked up as Smoke and Pearlie walked in. Her eyebrows raised, she stared at Smoke’s cheek for a moment before getting up and crossing to him.

  She gave him a kiss on the other cheek and gazed into his eyes. “What’s that I see on your face, Smoke Jensen?”

  Smoke reached up and fingered the cut, which was already scabbing over. “Nothing, dear.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Have you been fighting again?”

  Smoke grinned sheepishly, like a small boy caught stealing cookies. “Well, maybe a little.”

  Sally turned to Pearlie, who was standing nearby trying to look innocent. “Pearlie, I’m ashamed of you! You’re supposed to keep Smoke out of trouble when I’m not around.”

  “I’m sorry, Miz Sally, but there weren’t nothin’ I could do ’bout it. The man was spoilin’ fer a fight, an’ he didn’t give Smoke no chance to avoid it at all.”

  Cal moved as if to get out of bed, but Sally rushed over to push him back against the pillows.

  “Just where do you think you’re going, young man?” she asked.

  He grinned at her as he cut his eyes to Smoke and Pearlie. “It’s clear to me, Miss Sally, that those two can’t manage to stay out of trouble without me around. I need to get out of this bed and get back to work.”

  “Oh no, you don’t, Calvin Woods,” Sally said firmly. “Dr. Spalding says you have to stay in bed at least another week, and it’s going to be at least three weeks before you can sit a horse, so no arguments.”

  Smoke approached the bed. “Cal, I was braced by a couple of men today who said they’d been in touch with Floyd Devers. Do you remember him?”

  Cal nodded. “Sure, he was the one you shot in the leg durin’ that fracas with Bloody Bill Anderson a while back. I was there with you.”

  “Did you happen to notice if Devers was with that bunch that shot you?”

  Cal wagged his head. “No, sir. He weren’t there, I’m sure of that. I’d’ve noticed him for sure.”

  “How about a big, tall man with scars on his face and funny lookin’ ears?” Pearlie asked.

  Cal shrugged. “Nope, can’t say for sure ’bout him. There were so many of ’em that I only really noticed the two I shot an’ the leader—the tall, skinny galoot dressed all in black.”

  “Smoke, did you have any luck with the surrounding ranchers?” Sally ask
ed.

  “No. Either the gang has left the area or they’re holed up somewhere where nobody can see them. Not one person we spoke to had even seen them riding by.”

  “That’s strange.”

  He shrugged. “Not really, not if they want to stay out of sight. There’s thousands of acres around here where a group of that size could make a camp without being seen.”

  “But why would they want to stay out of sight, Smoke?” Pearlie asked. “Fer all they know, they kilt Cal deader’n yesterday’s news, so if’n the only person who could tell anybody they done it wasn’t around no more, why hide out?”

  “You’re right, Pearlie, it doesn’t make sense.” He shrugged, puzzled by it.

  “Maybe they just rode on out of the county on their way somewhere else,” Pearlie offered.

  Sally looked worried. “Smoke, I have a bad feeling about all this. I don’t think those men have left the area.”

  “I agree, Sally. I think they’re up to something, but I’m hanged if I know what it is.”

  “You think they might be after the bank in Big Rock?”

  He shook his head. “If they were, they would have already hit it. There wouldn’t be any reason for them to hang around cooling their heels for two weeks after shooting Cal.”

  “Well, I just know they’re up to something no good.”

  “You can bet on it, dear, but I’m afraid we’re just going to have to wait and see what it is. If they have gone somewhere else, we’ll find out about it. Monte Carson has wired all the neighboring towns to be on the lookout and let us know if they’re spotted.”

  “And if they are?” she asked, although she knew the answer already. She’d lived with Smoke too many years not to know what he had in mind.

  “Then I’m going to ride to wherever they are and teach them a lesson about minding their manners when they’re on my property,” he answered, his face serious.

  * * *

  In Fontana, more men were arriving every day, in groups of two, three, and four so as not to attract too much attention from the surrounding towns and ranches.

  There were already over forty hard men, most wanted one place or another, who had come seeking easy money. Just the mention of the word gold could make normal men do strange things, and these men were by no stretch of the imagination normal to begin with.