War Of The Mountain Man

by Johnstone, William W.

  “How’s it feel to be about to die?” Chub called, trying to steel himself for the draw.

  “I wouldn’t know, Chub,” Smoke’s voice was calm. “Why don’t you ask yourself that question?”

  The sheriff and his two deputies watched from the small office and jail.

  “Now!” Chub yelled, and his hands closed around the butts of his guns.

  Smoke drew, cocked, and fired with one fluid motion. A draw so fast that it was only a blur. Blink, and you missed it.

  The .44 slug took Chub in the center of the chest, knocking him off his boots and down to his knees in the dusty street. His hands were still on the butts of his guns. The guns were still in leather.

  “Good God!” the cowboy said. “I never even seen him draw.”

  The sheriff and his deputies stepped out of the office just as the boardwalks on both sides of the street filled with people.

  Smoke stepped off the porch and walked to the dying Chub. He held a cocked .44 in his right hand.

  Sally had risen from her seat to stand at the window, watching her man.

  Chub raised his head. Blood had gathered on his lips. His eyes were full of anguish. “I ... never even seen you draw,” he managed to gasp.

  “That’s the way it goes, Chub,” Smoke told him just as the lawman reached the bloody scene.

  Chub tried to pull a pistol from leather. The sheriff reached down and blocked the move.

  “Bastard!” Chub said. It was unclear whom he was cursing, Smoke or the sheriff.

  A local minister ran up. “Are you saved, Chub?”

  “Hell with you!” Chub said, then toppled over on his side. He closed his eyes and died.

  The sheriff looked at Smoke. “Now what?”

  Smoke shrugged his shoulders as he punched out the empty and reloaded. “Bury him.”

  Smoke and Sally rode out before dawn. The hotel’s dining room had not even opened. They would stop along the way and make breakfast.

  “Why do they do it, Smoke?” Sally broke the silence of the gray-lifting morning.

  Smoke knew what she meant. “I’ve never understood it, Sally. Men like Chub must be very unhappy men. And very shallow men. Let’s get off the trail and follow this creek for a ways,” he changed the subject. “See where it goes.”

  The creek wound around and lead them to the Swan River. There they stopped and cooked breakfast. “Fellow back at the hotel said the Swan would lead us right to Hell’s Creek. We may as well stay with the river. There are two more little towns between here and Hell’s Creek. He said it was right at a hundred miles.”

  “You’ve been in this country before?”

  “Not right here. It’s all new to me. But you can bet the news of the failed train robbery has reached Huggins by now.”

  “You think any of those men recognized you?”

  “I doubt it. But the news of our heading north reached Huggins the day after we boarded the train in Denver. But I doubt he knows we’re heading for Hell’s Creek.”

  “I’m sorry I pushed this on you, Smoke.”

  “You didn’t push anything on me, Sally. You want to visit an old friend who’s in trouble. That’s your right. And anybody who tries to prevent you from doing that is wrong. If they try to stop you, they’ll answer to me. It’s as simple as that.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Everything will always be black and white to you, won’t it, honey? No gray in the middle.”

  “I know what’s right, and I know what’s wrong. Lawyers want to make it complicated when it isn’t. We’ll see your friend and her husband and help them work out their problems.”

  “Legally?”

  Smoke munched on a piece of crisp bacon. “Depends on whether you interpret legal by using common sense or what a lawyer would think, I reckon.”

  Smoke and Sally followed the river north. Two days later they crossed the river and rode into a small village located on the east side of the Swan. There was no hotel in the village but there was a lady who took in boarders. Smoke and Sally got them a room and cleaned up.

  The town marshal was waiting on the front porch of the boarding house when Smoke stepped out for some fresh air while supper was being cooked.

  “Mr. Jensen,” the marshal said respectfully.

  “Afternoon,” Smoke replied, then waited.

  “I got to ask,” the marshal finally said. “You in town trouble-huntin?”

  “No. You can relax. I don’t hunt trouble. Me and my wife are just passing through.”

  The marshal sighed. “That’s a relief. I thought maybe you was on the prod for Jake Lewis.”

  “Who is Jake Lewis?”

  The marshal looked startled. “One of the men who survived that shoot-out you had some years ago. Over to that minin’ camp on the Uncompahgre.”

  It was Smoke’s turn to look startled. “I didn’t know there were any survivors.”

  “Only one that I know of. Jake Lewis. And you shot him all to hell and gone. There was fifteen men in that camp. You killed fourteen of them. Jake lived. He hid in a privy ’til you rode out.”

  “It’s news to me, Marshal. I know he wasn’t one of the men who raped and killed my wife and killed our baby. I know that for a fact.”

  “No, sir. He sure wasn’t. He joined up with Canning and Felter later. Jake’s brother was known as Lefty. You killed him in the shoot-out.”

  “I have no quarrel with Jake, Marshal. You can tell him that.”

  “Why don’t you tell him, Mr. Jensen? It would sure set his mind to ease.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Down at the saloon.”

  Smoke stared hard at the marshal, wondering if he were being set up.

  The marshal picked his thoughts out of the air. “I run a clean town, Mr. Jensen. I don’t take no payoffs from nobody and never will. This ain’t no setup. But I got to warn you that Jake is armed, and he ain’t drinkin ’.”

  “What you’re telling me is that you don’t know what he might do, right?”

  The marshal exhaled slowly. “That’s about it, Mr. Jensen. He may throw down on you. I just don’t know.”

  “But you want it settled one way or the other?”

  “Yes. Jake’s been livin’ with this for a long time. Lately, it’s been eatin’ at him. When he heard you was on the rails, comin’ north, he about went out of his mind with worry.”

  “Does he know Big Max Huggins?”

  “I got to tell you that he does. He spends some time up in Hell’s Creek.”

  “So he hasn’t changed his ways much, right?”

  “He ain’t never caused no trouble around here. You know how it is, Mr. Jensen. I ain’t got no warrants on him.”

  The marshal’s authority ended at the edge of town.

  Sally had stepped out on the porch to listen. Smoke turned and met her eyes. “Be careful,” she said. “I’ll save a plate for you.”

  Smoke nodded and slipped the hammer thongs from his .44’s. He stepped off the porch and looked at the marshal. “You walk with me. If this is a setup, I’ll take you out first.”

  “That’s fair. If this is a trap, it ain’t one of my doin’.”

  Smoke believed him, and he told him so as they walked up the street to the village’s only saloon.

  “Does Big Max ever get down this far south?”

  “Not no more,” the marshal said. “I killed one of his men several years ago and got lead in another one. I ain’t the fastest man around with a gun, but I shoot straight.”

  “That’s the most important thing. His men stay out of your town?”

  “That’s it. I allow any man one mistake. He leaves after the second one. Or he stays forever.”

  Smoke smiled, finding that he liked this blunt-talking marshal.

  They stepped up onto the short boardwalk, walking past a dress shop, a gunsmith, and a large general store. The marshal pushed open the batwings and Smoke stepped into the saloon right behind him.

  Jake
Lewis stood alone at the bar. The other customers had taken tables. Smoke stared at the man, trying to place him. But the shoot-out at the old silver camp was years behind him, and he could not remember Jake Lewis.

  Jake had brushed back his coat, exposing a pistol, the holster tied down. Smoke was curious about that. If the man wanted no trouble, why get set for it? Smoke concluded that Jake was wearing a hide-out gun. Maybe a sleeve gun. Shake his arm and the gun falls into his hand.

  Smoke walked to the bar and ordered a beer. Jake turned mean little eyes on him. Jake was no lightweight. He’d hit a good two hundred pounds and looked to be in good shape. About forty years old, Smoke figured.

  “You lookin’ for me, Jensen?” Jake broke the silence.

  “Nope.”

  “Just happened to ride into town and take a room, hey?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Believe it. I got no quarrel with you, Jake.”

  “I wish I could believe that, too.”

  “You can. The silver camp was long ago. You weren’t part of the bunch who killed Nicole and the baby. They’re all dead. I know that for a fact.”

  “I damn near died, Jensen.”

  “That was your problem. You should have picked better company to run with.”

  “You sayin’ my brother was no good?”

  “You walk through a barnyard, you’re going to get crap on your boots.”

  Someone in the seated crowd laughed at that.

  Jake’s face flushed. “Lefty was a good man.”

  “He wasn’t good enough,” Smoke told him.

  Jake ordered a drink and sipped at the bourbon. He set the shot glass down and said, “I’m glad you showed up. We can settle this thing once and for all.”

  “There is nothing to settle, Jake. Nothing at all.”

  “I think there is. I sure do think that.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Jake took another small sip of whiskey. “Momma took Lefty’s dyin’ pretty hard.”

  “I’m sorry for your mother. Not for Lefty. You keep walking around something, Jake. Get to it. I’ve got supper waiting at the boarding house.”

  “Don’t crowd me, Jensen.”

  Smoke chuckled and Jake gave him a queer look. “I came in here to tell you that I wasn’t trouble-hunting, and instead of being happy about it, you want to give me a bunch of lip. That shooting in the silver camp was ten years ago, Jake. I wouldn’t have known you if you walked in my front door wearing pink tights and totin’ a rose between your teeth.”

  All the men in the room had them a laugh at that. Jake’s face tightened and flushed deeper.

  “Big Max is waitin’ for you up at Hell’s Creek, Jensen,” he said, grinding his teeth together in anger.

  “Yeah? It figures that trash like you would end up rubbing elbows with trash like Huggins.”

  The crowd fell silent.

  Jake slowly turned to face Smoke. “You know what I think, Jensen?”

  “I’m not even sure you’re capable of thinking, Jake. I think you’re about as smart as a rock.”

  Jake curled one big hand around his glass and downed his whiskey. “You’re a big man with them guns on, Jensen. What are you with them off? Can you bare-knuckle fight, gunfighter? Or do you have to let them .44’s do your talkin’ for you?”

  “There’s sure one way to find out, Jake. Providing you have the stomach for it.” Smoke walked toward the man, stopping well within swinging distance.

  “We take off our guns together?” Jake asked.

  “Just as soon as you get rid of that hide-out pistol you’re packing.”

  Jake grunted and nodded his head. “It’s in my sleeve.”

  “I know it.”

  Jake shook his arm and the derringer fell out onto the bar. Together, they took off their gunbelts. They faced each other.

  “I’m gonna stomp your face in, pretty-boy,” Jake bragged.

  “I doubt it,” Smoke told him, pulling on a pair of leather gloves to protect his hands and to hit harder. He knocked the man down with a quick, hard right.

  Smoke stepped back, took a sip of his beer, and said, “You going to lay on the floor all evening, Jake? Come on, hurry up. I have supper waiting for me.”

  With a roar of rage, Jake jumped to his boots and charged.

  4

  Jake swung a big fist and Smoke ducked it, at the same time driving his right fist into Jake’s gut and stopping him with the blow. Jake backed up and caught his wind.

  With a curse, Jake came at Smoke, swinging both fists. Jake was a brawler, Smoke knew then, relying mostly on brute strength with little finesse about him. But he could be dangerous, Smoke reminded himself, if he landed one of those powerful fists.

  Smoke danced back, forcing the big man to come after him, using up his wind swinging wildly and cussing.

  Smoke saw a chance and took it, popping Jake smack in the mouth with a combination left and right. The blows brought blood and one tooth was knocked out, to roll and bounce on the sawdust floor.

  With a howl of rage, Jake charged, both fists flailing, the blows catching Smoke on his arms and shoulders and doing no damage. Smoke back-heeled Jake and sent the man tumbling to the floor. He could have ended the fight right then, by kicking Jake in the mouth. But Smoke stepped back. He felt no anger toward Jake; but, then, he didn’t especiallly feel sorry for him, either. He proved that by knocking Jake down just as soon as the man got to his boots.

  It was another combination, both blows connecting to the jaw of Jake Lewis this time and knocking him back against the bar. Jake grabbed a bottle of whiskey and hurled it at Smoke. Smoke grabbed the bottle, popped the cork and, with a grin at Jake, took him a sip.

  “You son of a ...” Jake choked back the obscenity. He leaned against the bar, catching his breath.

  “You want to quit, Jake?” Smoke asked. “You say so, and well have a drink together and call the fight over, with no hard feelings.”

  “Take him up on it, Jake!” the marshal said. “The man’s bein’ more than fair.”

  “You stay out of this,” Jake yelled at the marshal. He looked at Smoke. “To hell with you, Jensen!”

  Smoke shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you say, Jake.” Then he threw the bottle of whiskey at Jake, the bottle striking the man in the face and busting, spewing whiskey all over Jake and momentarily blinding him.

  Smoke stepped up to him and began hitting Jake in the face, his big work-hardened fists like huge hammers as they pounded the man again and again. Jake’s nose was broken, one eye closing, his lips smashed to pulp, and his jaw swelling. Smoke pounded the man with more than a dozen blows, then stepped back.

  Jake wiped the blood and whiskey out of his eyes and reached down, pulling up his pants leg and jerking a knife out of his boot. “Now, Jensen, you get your guts spread all over the room.”

  The marshal jerked iron and jacked back the hammer. “Drop the knife, Jake,” he warned. “This is a fair fight and it’s one that you wanted. You either drop the knife, or I’ll kill you.”

  With a disgusted snarl, Jake tossed the knife to one side.

  “Now you made me mad, Jake,” Smoke told him. “Now you get what you’ve probably had coming to you for a long time.” Smoke walked toward the man, his big hands clenched.

  Jake lifted his fists and decided to use what boxing skills he had. He swung a roundhouse blow at Smoke, which would have knocked Jensen to the floor had it connected. Smoke grabbed the wrist with both hands, turned to one side, and Jake found himself flying through the air. He crashed through a front window and bounced off the boardwalk.

  Smoke stepped out the batwings and was all over Jake.

  Smoke hit the man twice in the belly, doubling him over. He grabbed Jake behind the head and brought his face down and his knee up. The knee connected squarely, and what was left of Jake’s nose was now spread all over his face.

  Smoke backhanded Jake, knockin
g him off the boardwalk and into the horse-crap by the hitchrail. One startled horse kicked Jake in the butt and sent him rolling and squalling into the middle of the street.

  Smoke didn’t let up. He had given the man a chance to not fight at all. Jake turned it down. Then Jake had shown his true colors by pulling a knife. To hell with him!

  Jake staggered to his feet and feebly raised his fists. Smoke looked at the beaten man with blood dripping from his face and lowered his fists. He turned his back to Jake Lewis and walked back into the saloon. Jake sank to his knees in the street and tried to get up. He could not.

  “Couple of you boys go out there and toss him into a horse trough,” the marshal ordered. “Then I’ll tell him to get the hell gone from town and don’t come back.” He looked at Smoke. “You’ll have to kill that man someday, Jensen. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I hope not,” Smoke said, then ordered a mug of cool beer.

  “You will,” the marshal stated flatly. “You humiliated him, and men like Jake can’t live with that. It eats on them like a cancer.”

  Smoke drank half his beer. “He’ll have to come looking for me if he wants a killing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over.”

  Smoke drained his mug and walked back to the boarding house. He needed a hot bath.

  The man and wife rode out of town before dawn the next morning and made camp at noon. Sally heated water for Smoke to soak his hands in to keep down the swelling.

  They stayed in camp for two days, relaxing, fishing, and behaving like a couple of kids. They walked through the woods, went skinny-dipping in a creek, and loved every minute of it. The swelling went down in Smoke’s hands, and they packed up and pulled out, heading north toward Hell’s Creek, following the Swan.

  Two days later they rode into a small town at the south end of a lake. They were a couple of hours ride away from Hell’s Creek. Their welcome in the town was slightly less than cordial. When they tried to check into the small hotel, they were told all the rooms were taken.

  “Is there a boarding house?” Sally asked.

  “It’s full, too,” the desk clerk at the hotel told them.

  “Must be a convention in town,” Smoke said dryly, looking around him at the deserted hotel lobby. “Sure are a lot of people stirring about.”