“We’ll be leaving now,” Smoke said, holstering his Colts and picking up his purchases from the counter. He walked out the door slowly.
Smoke stepped over the sprawled, dead legs of Pike and walked past his dead partner in the shooting.
“What are we ’posed to do with the bodies?” a man asked Preacher.
“Bury ’em.”
“What’s the kid’s name?”
“Smoke.”
* * *
The judge let his eyes settle on Haminerick for a moment as he took a long drag from his cigar. “Anyway,” he continued through a cloud of blue smoke swirling around his head, “that was the first time I met the man named Smoke Jensen. A few days later, I went to visit a friend in a nearby town, and I heard how everyone was talking about how a friend of Preacher’s told Smoke that two men, Haywood and Thompson, who claimed to be Pike’s brother, had tracked him and Preacher and were in town waiting for Smoke to show up . . .
* * *
Smoke walked down the rutted street an hour before sunset, the sun at his back—-the way he had planned it. Thompson and Haywood were in a big tent at the end of the street, which served as a saloon and cafe. Preacher had pointed them out earlier and asked if Smoke needed his help. Smoke said no. The refusal came as no surprise.
As Smoke walked down the street a man glanced up, spotted him, then hurried quickly inside.
Smoke felt no animosity toward the men in the tent saloon, no anger, no hatred. But they’d come here after him, so let the dance begin, he thought.
Smoke stopped fifty feet from the tent. “Haywood! Thompson! You want to see me?”
The two men pushed back the tent flap and stepped out, both angling to get a better look at the man they had tracked. “You the kid called Smoke?” one said.
“I am.”
“Pike was my brother,” the heavier of the pair said. “And Shorty was my pal.”
“You can’t do anything about your family, but you should choose your friends more carefully,” Smoke told him.
“They was just a-funnin’ with you,” Thompson said.
“You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
“If that’s the way you want to take it.”
Thompson’s face colored with anger, his hand moving closer to the .44 in his belt. “You take that back or make your play.”
“There is no need for this,” Smoke said.
The second man began cursing Smoke as he stood tensely, legs spread wide, body bent at the waist. “You’re a damned thief. You stolt their gold and then kilt ’em.”
“I don’t want to have to kill you,” Smoke said.
“The kid’s yellow!” Haywood yelled. Then he grabbed for his gun.
Haywood touched the butt of his gun just as two loud gunshots blasted in the dusty street. The .36-caliber balls struck Haywood in the chest, one nicking his heart. He dropped to the dirt, dying. Before he closed his eyes, and death relieved him of the shocking pain by pulling him into a long sleep, two more shots thundered. He had a dark vision of Thompson spinning in the street. Then Haywood died.
Thompson was on one knee, his left hand holding his shattered right elbow. His leg was bloody. Smoke had knocked his gun from his hand, and then shot him in the leg.
“Pike was your brother,” Smoke told the man. “So I can understand why you came after me. But you were wrong. I’ll let you live. But stay with mining. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you on sight.”
The young man turned, putting his back to the dead and bloody pair. He walked slowly up the street, his high-heeled Spanish riding boots pocking the air with dusty puddles.1
* * *
When the judge paused in his story, Hammer cleared his throat and asked, “You mind if I have a shot of that whiskey, Judge?”
Fitzpatrick grinned and shook his head. “No, not at all, Mr. Haminerick. How about you, Luke? You want a taste too?”
Luke didn’t answer, but just reached out and poured him and Hammer drinks, emptying the bottle.
“Not to worry, there’s plenty more where that came from,” the judge said, and got another bottle out of his desk drawer and placed it on the desk between them. “I have a feeling we’re all going to need another one soon,” he said as he refilled his glass yet again.
“Anyway,” the judge went on, “after Smoke shot and killed Pike, his friend, and Haywood, and wounded Pike’s brother, Thompson, he and Preacher went after the other men who had killed Smoke’s brother and stolen the Confederates’ gold. They rode on over to La Plaza de los Leones, the Plaza of the Lions. It was there that they trapped a man named Casey in a line shack with some of his friends. The way I hear it, Smoke and Preacher burned them out and captured Casey. Smoke took him to the outskirts of the town and hung him on a telegraph pole for the entire town to see.”
McCain almost choked on his drink. “He just hung him? No triall or anything?”
The judge took his cigar out of his mouth and stared at the half-inch-long ash on the end before scraping it off into an ashtray. “Yes, Luke, but you’ve got to realize that’s the way it was done in those days. That town would never of hanged one of their own on the word of Smoke Jensen.” He snorted. “Like as not, they’d of hanged Smoke and Preacher instead. Anyway, after that, the sheriff of that town put out a flyer on Smoke, accusing him of murder. Had a ten-thousand-dollar reward on it too.”
“Did Smoke and Preacher go into hiding?” asked Hammer, thinking that would have been what he would have done.
“With a ten-thousand-dollar reward on his head?” McCain said. “He must’ve, ’cause most men would turn in their mother for that kind of money.”
“No, sir, he didn’t,” the judge replied. “Seems Preacher advised it, but Smoke said he had one more call to make. I didn’t see this, you understand, but a man who was there told me all about it shortly after it happened. They rode on over to Oreodelphia, looking for a man named Ackerman. But, and this is the funny part, they didn’t go after him right at first. Smoke and Preacher sat around doing nothing for two or three days. You see, gentlemen, Smoke was smart, as well as fast with his guns. He wanted Ackerman to get plenty nervous. He did, and finally came gunning for Smoke with a bunch of men who rode for his brand . . .”
* * *
At the edge of town, Ackerman, a bull of a man, with small, mean eyes and a cruel slit for a mouth, slowed his horse to a walk. Ackerman and his hands rode down the street, six abreast.
Preacher and Smoke were on their feet. Preacher stuffed his mouth full of chewing tobacco. Both men had slipped the thongs from the hammers of their Colts. Preacher wore two Colts, .44’s. One in a holster, the other stuck behind his belt. The old mountain man and the young gunfighter stood six feet apart on the boardwalk.
The sheriff closed his office door and walked into the empty cell area. He sat down and began a game of checkers with his deputy. He wanted no part of this blood feud, no part at all.
Ackerman and his men wheeled their horses to face the men on the boardwalk. “I hear tell you boys is lookin’ for me. If so, here I am.”
“News to me,” Smoke said, “What’s your name?”
“You know who I am, kid. Ackerman.”
“Oh, yeah!” Smoke grinned. “You’re the man who helped kill my brother by shooting him in the back. Then you stole the gold he was guarding.”
Inside the hotel, pressed against the wall, the desk clerk listened intently, his mouth open in anticipation of gunfire.
“You’re a liar. I didn’t shoot your brother; that was Potter and his bunch.”
“You stood and watched it. Then you stole the gold.”
“It was war, kid.”
“But you were on the same side,” Smoke said. “So that not only makes you a killer, it makes you a traitor and a coward.”
“I’ll kill you for sayin’ that!”
“You’ll burn in hell a long time before I’m dead,” Smoke told him.
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Ackerman grabbed for his pistol. The street exploded in gunfire and black-powder fumes. Horses screamed and bucked in fear. One rider was thrown to the dust by his lunging mustang. Smoke took the men on the left, Preacher the men on the right side. The battle lasted no more than ten to twelve seconds. When the noise ended and the gun smoke cleared, five men lay in the street, two of them dead. Two more would die from their wounds. One was shot in the side—he would live. Ackerman had been shot three times: once in the belly, once in the chest, and one ball had taken him in the side of the face as the muzzle of the .36 had lifted with each blast. Still, Ackerman sat in his saddle, dead. The big man finally leaned to one side and toppled from his horse, one boot hanging in the stirrup. The horse shied, and then it began walking down the dusty street, dragging Ackerman, leaving a bloody trail.
Preacher spat into the street. “Damn near swallowed my chaw.”
“I never seen a draw that fast,” a man said from his storefront. “It was a blur.”
* * *
“The editor of the local paper walked up to stand next to the man who told me this story, where he’d been standing watching the show,” the judge said. “He watched the old man and the young gunfighter walk down the street. He said he’d truly seen it all. The old man had killed one man, wounded another. The young man had killed four men, as calmly as picking his teeth.
“‘What’s that young man’s name?’ the editor asked him.
“ ‘Smoke Jensen,’ the man said. ‘But he’s not a man, he’s a devil.’”
The judge finished his story and drained his glass, his face pale at the memory of such a dangerous young man.
McCain watched the judge finish his drink, and he felt nauseated in the pit of his stomach. He could tell Jensen was a dangerous man, that was evident from the way he handled himself, but he’d had no idea he was crazy as well. He would have to be to have done half the things the judge had said he had.
He glanced at Hammer, whose face was as pale as the judge’s. I don’t blame him, McCain thought. That’s not a man you want on your trail with blood on his mind.
22
Hammer drained his drink and glanced over at Luke McCain, who had a thoughtful expression on his face. “So, Judge,” Hammer said, trying to appear nonchalant. “I appreciate your story about this Smoke Jensen and what a tough hombre he was, but what was your point in telling us all this?” He smirked, trying not to show how afraid he was.
The judge smiled sadly at Hammer. “Do you know how old Jensen was when all this happened?” he asked.
When Luke and Hammer both shook their heads, the judge chuckled, though there was little mirth in his face. “He was only eighteen years old,” he said. “And I remember thinking to myself I’d never seen eyes so cold except on a diamondback rattlesnake.”
Luke and Hammer remained silent, their eyes fixed on the judge.
“And my point in telling you this, Mr. Hammerick, was to let you know that you’ve got us all in a hell of a mess.”
“Why didn’t you say something when I came to you and we made our plans on how to handle this?” Luke asked.
The judge shook his head. “I’d forgotten all about it,” he answered. “After all, that was over thirty years ago, and Jensen is a rather common name.”
“So, how do you know this Jensen is the same one in your story?” Hammer asked, hoping the judge was mistaken.
“I said Jensen is a common name, Mr. Hammerick, but Smoke is definitely not.”
The judge sighed, and put his empty glass down and stubbed out his cigar. “But it really only came back to me when Jensen stared at me at the end of the trial and said he’d be back. When I looked into those eyes as black as obsidian, I knew I was looking at death incarnate.” The judge looked at his empty glass, as if wishing it were full so he could drain it again and put the thought of those eyes out of his mind.
“I think you’re overreacting, Judge,” Hammer said, trying once again to put up a brave front, though he felt as if his insides were full of ice.
The judge shook his head. “No, Hammer. The story I told you illustrates that Smoke Jensen is a man who neither forgets nor forgives. When he finds out you and your men were set free and that Luke and I were in this with you, he will come after all of us, and God help us, he’ll kill us all as sure as the winter up here brings snow.”
“Maybe we’ll get him first when he comes,” Hammer said, though his voice was uncertain and he felt as if his bowels were turning to water.
The judge shook his head again. “If you think any of us has the slightest chance against such a man when he’s on the prod for us, then you are sadly mistaken, my boy,” the judge said with conviction. “But even if by chance you or Luke get lucky and do finish him before he kills all of us, by then it won’t matter. Jensen will have already contacted the governor and the U.S. marshals, so even if by some fluke of luck you do survive his attack, there will be a price on all of our heads that will make us a target for every bounty hunter in these territories.”
“So, what do you propose?” Hammer said, sweat beginning to form on his brow. He had a wild urge to get up and bolt from the courthouse and run as far and as fast as he could in any direction as long as it was away from Smoke Jensen.
“Your only chance, and Luke’s and my only chance, is if you and your men go after Smoke Jensen and kill him and his companions before they find out you’ve been released and he has cause to contact the governor and the marshals. Then, and only then, will we be safe.”
“But Judge,” Luke argued, “you just said we wouldn’t stand a chance against Jensen. So why are you recommending we go looking for him?”
“I said you could not defeat him once he’s on your trail and looking for you, Luke. I think the only chance anyone has of killing Smoke Jensen is if he doesn’t know they’re after him. If he’s not expecting an attack, perhaps he can be ambushed and killed before he’s on his guard.”
Hammer interrupted. “But Judge, Jensen and his men are going up into the Canadian wilderness to survey for the railroad. There’s no telling where they’ll be or even if me and my men can find them.”
The judge held up his hand. “Yes, there is a way, Mr. Hammerick. When you survey for a railroad, you leave trail marks to show the men coming behind you where to lay the tracks. Jensen and his men will be leaving a trail even a child could follow.”
He looked back and forth between McCain and Hammer. “All you and your men will have to do is stay clear of the railroad authorities so you won’t be identified before you can find and eliminate Jensen and his men.”
Hammer nodded slowly, thinking it through. “Yeah, and while we’re up there, I’ll make sure to take care of that Knowles fellow who’s the only witness to my being at the robbery site.”
“Good thinking,” the judge said. “If there are no witnesses against you, then Luke and I will not have to explain why we let you out of jail.”
Hammer got to his feet. “If I hurry, maybe my men and I can catch them before they get back to Winnipeg.”
The judge held up his hand. “No, give them a good lead. It’ll be much better if they’re killed in the Canadian wilderness rather than on the trail back to Winnipeg. That way, if you’re careful, you can blame it on the Indians or some other brigands up there and no suspicion will fall on you.”
“Also,” Luke added, “you need to take care of this Knowles man first so that if Jensen does call the governor, he won’t have a witness who can testify against you.”
Hammer glanced at McCain. “So, I take it you’re not planning on coming with us up to Canada?”
Luke shook his head. “No. Inasmuch as you got yourself and the judge and me into this mess, I think it’s only right you should get us out of it on your own.”
Hammer smiled evilly. “That will be my pleasure”
The judge smiled, and reached over to pour them all fresh drinks. “In that case, I think we should drink to a successful conclusion to all our troubles.”
* * *
Smoke and his friends took their time riding back to Winnipeg. They were still tired after the long, hard ride to catch up with Hammer and his men, and decided an extra day or two on the journey back wouldn’t make any difference to Van Horne.
When they finally arrived in Winnipeg, they went immediately to see Van Horne, only to find he’d already left town. He was pushing his tracklaying laborers harder than he ever had and according to the men still in Winnipeg, he was managing to stay only a few miles behind the surveyors as they blazed a trail through very heavily wooded countryside.
“How far out of town has he managed to lay the tracks?” Smoke asked.
“Close to twenty miles already,” the man answered.
Smoke looked at Louis. “Twenty miles? That’ll take us several days to catch up with them on horseback,” he said, dreading even another day in the saddle without resting first.
The station man smiled and shook his head. “Oh, Mr. Jensen, there’s no need for you to try and follow him on horseback. With the tracks laid, we can send you by train with no problem. Hell, we have to go back and forth almost every day with supplies for the laborers anyway.”
“But what about our horses and equipment?” Pearlie asked, looking at Smoke. “We’re gonna need ’em when we catch up with Wilson and his crew.”
The station man answered with a negligent wave of his hand. “That’s no problem either, my friends. We’ll just attach an extra boxcar to the train, and your animals and supplies can be carried along with you. When you reach the end of the track, you can talk with Mr. Van Horne and then be on your way to join up with Tom Wilson and the other surveyors up ahead.”
“When’s the next train leaving?” Smoke asked.
“Yeah, and do we have time to eat first?” Pearlie added, rubbing his stomach.
The man pursed his lips and glanced at the pocket watch he pulled from his vest. “Sure, I’ll tell the cook to fix you up something right away, and by the time you’re done eating, the train should be loaded up and ready to go.”
“You boys go on over to the cook tent,” Smoke said. “I’m going to drop by the hospital tent and see how Albert Knowles is doing and let him know what happened in Noyes.”
Quest of the Mountain Man Page 16