Charlie cursed him.
“As a legally appointed deputy sheriff of this county, I am ordering you to surrender your guns, Charlie. There will be no charges filed against you if you do that.”
Charlie laughed at him.
“You were warned,” Smoke said softly.
“Draw!” Charlie yelled, and his right hand dipped down, the fingers closing around the butt of his pistol.
He felt something heavy and hard strike him in the chest. Charlie was on his back in the street, the sun-warmed dirt hot through his shirt. A shadow fell over him. Through the mist that had suddenly covered his eyes, he could see Smoke Jensen standing over him, a pistol in his hand, held by his side, the hammer back.
Charlie fumbled for his gun. He was astonished to find it was still in leather.
“I never seen anybody that fast,” John Steele said to his boss. “It was like the wind.”
“Yeah,” Red reluctantly agreed.
The rest of Malone’s bunch, all hard cases in their own right, sat their saddles quietly. They were all brave men, loyal to the brand, and all good with a gun. But they wanted no part of Smoke Jensen. Not face to face, anyway.
“You should have stayed in the bunkhouse today, Charlie,” Smoke told the dying man.
“You! ...” Charlie gasped the word. Then he closed his eyes and died.
Smoke holstered his .44 and walked over to Red Malone. “No trouble in this town, Malone. No racing your horses and kicking up dust. No discharging of firearms. No foul language outside the saloon. Any of your crew gets drunk, you take them home, or me or Jim will put them in jail and the judge will fine them. Is all that understood?”
Hate leaped out of Red Malone’s eyes. No one talked to him like that and got away with it.
He stepped out of the saddle without replying and turned his back to Smoke. A hard hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around, almost jerking him off his boots. Smoke Jensen stood staring at him, eyeball to eyeball.
“I asked you a question, Malone. I expect a reply.”
Red noticed that Smoke had slipped on leather gloves. “I’ll give you a reply, gunslinger,” Red said. “and here it is.”
Red swung a big fist. Had it connected, it would have knocked Smoke off his boots.
It didn’t connect.
Smoke sidestepped and planted one big fist in Red’s belly. The air whooshed out of the man as he stumbled back. Smoke stepped in and popped him on the jaw with a left, following that with a right. Red fell back against a hitchrail. He shook his big head and cussed Smoke.
“Anytime you’ve had enough, Red,” Smoke told him, “you just holler quit and that’s it.”
“I run this end of the county, Jensen,” he said, his lips peeled back in an animallike snarl.
Smoke answered him with a sneaky left that snapped Red’s head back and bloodied his mouth. Smoke stepped back and waited.
A thin middle-aged cowboy sat his saddle and cut his eyes to John Steele. He whispered, “The boss better uncle, Steele. Jensen’s givin‘him a chance. If he don’t, Jensen’ll beat him half to death.”
“I got twenty dollars that says you’re wrong, Sal,” John replied.
“You’re on.”
Red faked with a left and connected against Smoke’s jaw with a right. The punch hurt. Smoke stepped back and shook his head. Red pursued him out into the street, grinning through the blood on his mouth.
Smoke ducked a punch and hammered a right over Red’s kidney, following that with an uppercut to the man’s mouth. Blood leaked from Red’s lips.
Red backhanded Smoke in the face and charged, trying to grab him in a bear hug. Smoke danced to one side and hit Red twice in the face with a left and a right.
Red slipped a fist through and busted Smoke on the jaw, but the punch had lost a lot of steam. Smoke hit him with another combination, belly and jaw, then tripped the man, sending him sprawling to the dirt.
Red came up with a fistful of dirt and hurled it at Smoke, trying to momentarily blind the gunfighter. But Smoke had been raised by mountain men, and he knew all the tricks and then some. He ducked under the dust cloud and rammed Red in the belly with his head, both hands around the man’s hard waist. Smoke drove him into a hitchrail. The hitchrail broke under the impact and Smoke released the man just in time to see Red fall into a horse trough.
Smoke stood on the outside of the trough and hammered Red’s face into a bloody mask. Red lost consciousness and slipped down into the water, bubbling.
Smoke stepped back, found his hat, and put it on just as John Steele and several others were frantically pulling their boss out of the trough before he drowned.
“Drag him over to the jail and dump him in a cell,”Smoke ordered.
“I’ll be damned if I will!” Steele shouted at Smoke.
Jim walked up and laid his pistol across the back of the foreman’s head, and it was Steele’s turn to fall into the trough, face first.
“Drag both of them to jail,” Smoke ordered. This time, no objections were forthcoming. The Lightning brand crew dragged the boss and the foreman across the street and into the jail, depositing both of them in a cell.
John Steele opened his eyes and glared hate at everybody. Red Malone snored and bubbled on his bunk.
“Gimme my twenty dollars,” Sal said.
John dug in his damp pockets and threw a double eagle at the man. “Here’s your damn money. And here’s something else: You’re fired!”
“Suits me,” Sal said, slipping the twenty-dollar gold piece into his vest pocket. “I’m tarred of listenin’ to your big mouth a-flappin’ anyways.”
“The next time I see you, Sal, you better be ready to drag iron.”
The thin bowlegged cowboy lifted his eyes and stared at the foreman. Smoke knew that look; he had worn it himself, many times: It was the look of a very dangerous and very confident man. Smoke smiled, thinking: I’ve found another deputy.
“You best think about that, John.”Sal’s words were softly spoken and ringed with tempered steel. “I’ve helped bury a lot better men than you.”
John spat through the bars and cursed him.
Smoke caught Jim’s eyes and tapped the star pinned to his shirt, pointing at Sal. Jim grinned and nodded his head in agreement.
Smoke stepped outside and faced the Lightning crew. “You boys can have your drinks at the saloon, buy your tobacco and needs, or whatever else legal you came to town to do. Make trouble, and you’ll either join your bosses in there”—he jerked his thumb toward the jail—“or join Charlie in a pine box. The choice is yours.”
“We’re peaceful, Smoke,” a hand said. “But this here is a friendly warnin’ to you, and don’t take it the wrong way. When you let Red outta there, he’s gonna be on the prod for you. And right or wrong, we ride for the brand.”
“That’s your choice to make. Now, clear the street and drag Charlie off to the undertaker.”
Jim and Sal stepped out onto the boardwalk. Smoke turned to the just-fired puncher and said, “You know anything about deputy sheriffing?”
“I’ve wore a badge a time or two.”
“You want a job?”
“Might as well. Seein’ as how I done been fired from cowboyin’.”
“I have to warn you: It’s going to get real interesting around here.”
Sal hitched at his gunbelt. “I ’spect it will. Makes the time pass faster, though.”
“Lemme out of here, you son of a bitch!” John Steele hollered.
7
“I’ve had your suit pressed,” Sally told him. “We’re going to a party tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The ladies of the town are giving us a party. They’re all quite taken with you and want to meet you up close.”
Smoke rolled his eyes. “I can hardly wait.”
Red Malone had woken up and had joined John Steele in bellowing from their cell.
“What are you going to do about that?” Sally asked.
“I can either shoot them, hang them, or cut them loose. What do you suggest?”
“They probably deserve the former. The latter would certainly quiet the town considerably.”
“Lay out my suit. I’ll go speak with Judge Garrison.”
“Oh, let’s bond them out,” the judge said. “All that squalling is giving me a headache.” He smiled. “We’ll set the bond at a hundred dollars apiece.”
“A hundred dollars!” John Steele recoiled from the bars and screamed like a wounded puma.
“Relax, John,” Malone said. The man’s face was horribly bruised, both eyes almost swollen shut, his lips puffy, and his nose looked like a big red beet that an elephant had stepped on. He took a wad of still-damp greenbacks from his pocket and carefully counted out two hundred dollars, passing the money through the bars.
Smoke took it and infuriated the man by counting it again.
“It’s all there, you son of a ...” He choked back the oath and stood gripping the bars, shaking with anger.
“Sure is,” Smoke said cheerfully. He unlocked the door and waved the men out. “You boys take it easy now. And come back to Barlow anytime, now, you hear?”
The rancher and his foreman did not reply. They stomped out and slammed the door behind them. Smoke sat at his desk and chuckled.
Smoke suffered through the party given by the good ladies of Barlow. He answered the questions—from both men and women alike—as best he could, and ate fried chicken and potato salad until he felt that if he ate another piece, he’d start clacking and laying eggs.
Walking back to the hotel—they had now been moved to the best room in the place, the Presidential Suite, which included a private water closet—Sally said, “Max Huggins had pretty well beaten these people down, hadn’t he, honey?”
“Yes. And that first day in town, I came down hard on them—probably too hard. It’s easy for someone ruthless to cut the heart out of people. It’s ridiculously easy. Max is a smart man as well as a ruthless one. He went after the children of the townspeople. That shows me right there how low he is.”
“You’ll have to kill him, won’t you, honey?”
“Me, or somebody. Yes.”
Sal walked up, making his rounds, rattling doorknobs and looking up dark alleyways.
“Quiet, Smoke,” the small man said. “I figure it’ll be that way for three, maybe five days. Until Red gets back on his feet. And then hell come gunnin’ for you.”
“I expect he will, Sal. I doubt if the man has ever received so thorough a beating as he got today.”
“Smoke, he ain’t never even been whipped before this day. And that’s the God’s truth.”
“Walk along with us, Sal. Tell me about him.”
“I ain’t from this part of the country, Smoke. I was born in Missouri and come west with my parents in ’50, I think it was. They settled in Nebraska and I drifted when I was seventeen. Most of my time I spent in Colorado and Idaho. That’s how come it was I knowed who you was. I didn’t come to this area until last year. I was fixin’ to drift come the end of the month anyways. I just don’t cotton to men like Red Malone and John Steele. I’ll tell you what I know about him and about Max Huggins. I was told that Malone come into this area right after the Civil War. He was just a youngster, maybe nineteen or so. He carved him out a place for his ranch and defended it against Injuns and outlaws. Built it up right good. But he’s always been on the shady side. Lie, cheat, steal, womanize. I was told his wife was a decent person. She bore him one son and one daughter, and then she took off when it got so Red was flauntin’ his other women in her face. He’s got women all over the country.”
Smoke stopped them and they sat down on a long bench in front of the barber shop.
Sal pulled out the makings and asked Sally, “You object, ma’am?”
“Oh, no. Go right ahead. I’ll take a puff or two off of Smoke’s cigarette.”
Sal almost dropped the sack at that. He kept any comments he had to himself. Strong-willed woman, he thought. Probably wants the vote, too. Lord help us all.
Sal rolled, shaped, licked, and lit up. “Red’s daughter is a right comely lass. But Tessie is spoiled rotten, has the manners of a hog, and the morals of a billy goat. Melvin is crazy. Plumb loco. He likes to hurt people. And he’s fast, Smoke. Have mercy, but the boy is quick. And a dead shot. But he’s nuts. His eyes will scare you, make you back up. He’s killed maybe half-a-dozen men, and they weren’t none of them pilgrims, neither. Red’s good with a short gun, but Melvin is nearabouts as fast as you, Smoke. And I ain’t kiddin’.
“Naturally, just as soon as Big Max come into the area, him and Red struck a deal. Max would own the law enforcement of the county—and it’s a sorry bunch—and control the north end of the county, and Red would control the south end. Red didn’t have no interest in runnin’ this town. He just wanted his share of the crooked games up in Hell’s Creek, and his share of the gold and greenbacks taken in robberies. In return, he’d see that no one come in here with reform on their mind. So that means, Smoke, that you got to go. There ain’t no other way for Red and Max to keep on doin’ what they’re doin’.
“Big Max, now, that’s another story. Bad through and through. He’s run crooked games and killed and robbed folks and run red-light houses from San Francisco to Fort Worth and north into Canada. He’s a sorry excuse for a human being. I’d be happy to kill him if for no other reason than to clear the air for other folks.”
“I can see why Max settled here,” Smoke said.
“Sure. Wild country. One road runnin’ north and south, one road runnin’ east and west. No trains yet. Proper law ain’t reached this part of the territory yet.” He smiled, then added, “’Cepting in this little town, that is.”
The next morning, Smoke escorted the gambler he’d jailed to the stagecoach office. Jim fetched the hurdy-gurdy girls from the hotel.
“You might eventually get to Hell’s Creek,” Smoke informed them all. “But it won’t be by going through Barlow.”
“This ain’t legal,” the gambler protested.
“Sue me,” Smoke said, and shoved the tinhorn into the stage. He looked up at the driver. “Get them out of here.”
“Yes, sir!” the driver grinned, and yelled at his team.
Smoke began his walk to the hotel to deal with Al Martin. The gunfighter had sent a boy to tell Smoke he wasn’t about to be run out of town.
“How are you gonna deal with this guy?” Sal asked.
“He wants to stay in Barlow,” Smoke replied. “So I’m going to let him stay.”
“Huh?” Jim looked at Smoke.
“Forever,” Smoke said tightly. “If that’s the way he wants it.”
Al Martin was lounging on the boardwalk in front of the hotel, having an after-breakfast cigar.
“He’s quick,” Sal told Smoke. “With either hand. I’ve seen him work.”
Smoke had no comment about that.
Al Martin tossed his cigar into the dirt and stepped out into the street.
“You boys get out of the way,” Smoke told his deputies.
Sal and Jim stepped to one side.
A1 brushed back his coat, exposing the butts of his .45’s.
“One more chance, Al,” Smoke called, never breaking his stride. “You can rent a horse at the livery and ride south.”
“I’m headin’ north,” A1 returned the call.
“Not through this town,” Smoke told him.
“You don’t have the right to do that.”
“I’m doing it, Al.”
Joe Walsh, the owner of the Circle W, had left his ranch early with two of his men, to buy supplies in Barlow. The men stood in front of Bonnie’s Cafe and watched. Joe had heard of Smoke Jensen for years, but he had never seen him until now.
He was very impressed by this first sighting. He’d heard of what had happened to Red, and that amused him. If any man had a beating coming to him, it was Red. And Max Huggins. But Joe wondered if Smoke was hoss enough to
take the huge Max Huggins.
“Last chance, Al,” Smoke called. “I am ordering you to leave this town immediately.”
Smoke stopped about forty feet from Al.
“You know where you can stick that order, Jensen.”
“Then make your play, Al,” Smoke said calmly.
A1 went for his guns. He got both barrels of the .45’s halfway out of leather before Smoke drew. Smoke shot him twice, in the belly and the chest, the slugs turning the man around and sitting him down in the street, on his butt.
“Holy Mother of Jesus!” Joe Walsh whispered the words. “He’s so quick it was a blur.”
His hands shook their heads in awe.
Smoke walked up to Al Martin. The gunfighter looked up at him. “Melvin’s quicker, Jensen,” he pushed the words past bloody lips. “You’ll meet your match with the kid.”
“Maybe. But you’ll meet your Maker long before that happens.”
A1 fell over on his side. “Cold,” he muttered. “Gimme a decent buryin’,” he requested. “One fittin’ a human being.”
“I would,” Smoke told him, his words carrying to both sides of the street, “if you were a decent human being.”
“Bastard!” Al cursed him.
“That’s a hard man yonder,” Joe told his hands. “Probably the hardest man I ever seen.”
Al Martin died cursing the name of Smoke Jensen.
Smoke punched out the empty brass and reloaded just as the combination barber/ undertaker came walking up.
“What kind of funeral you want him to have, Sheriff?” he asked.
“Whatever his pockets will bear,” Smoke told him. “Bring his guns and personal items to the office.”
“Them’s right nice boots he’s wearin’,”the man said. “Be a shame to waste that leather.”
“Whatever,” Smoke said. He walked over to the cafe and stepped up on the boardwalk.
The rancher stuck out his hand. “Joe Walsh,” he introduced himself. “I own the Circle W.”
Smoke took the hand.
“Good to have some decent law enforcement around here.” He looked across the street at Jim Dagonne and grinned. “How’d you get him off the jug?”
War Of The Mountain Man Page 6