Kit Silver had started into the bunkhouse. He paused at the doorway, stared for a moment, and then carefully backed out. He waved for Patmos to join him.
“What’s up, Kit?”
“You better watch Whisperin’ and Val,” Kit warned. “I think they done fell in love. With each other!”
Fifteen
The man felt the rope settle around him and tighten, pinning his arms to his side. He didn’t even have time to yell before he was jerked out of the saddle. He landed on his butt, on the ground, the wind ripped from him. He felt himself jerked to his boots and slammed against a tree, and the rope wound around him. When his head stopped spinning, his vision cleared, and he could see and comprehend what was happening, he knew he was in serious trouble.
“You like to make war on young girls, huh?” Smoke asked him.
“Not exactly,” the rider gasped. “I just ride for the brand.”
“You think you’re going to continue doing that?”
“Not if you give me a chance to get gone.”
“That might not be necessary,” Smoke told him.
“Huh?”
“Did you hire out your guns or your skills with cows and horses?”
“I ain’t no fast gun, Mister Jensen. Last time I tried that I damn near shot my foot off. I punch cows and mend fence and brand and …”
“I get the picture. How many working cowboys on Fat’s spread?”
“Me and two others. The rest is hired guns. My name’s Luddy. My buddies is Dud and Parker.”
“Lud and Dud?” Smoke said with a smile.
The cowboy tried to hide a grin. “We been together since we was kids. Parker’s all right, too.”
Smoke loosened the rope and let it fall. As he was looping it back, he asked, “Step away from the tree. Keep your hand away from your gun.”
“You can have it if you want it, Mister Jensen.”
“Keep it. Is Fat paying you fighting wages?”
“No, sir. Thirty-five dollars a month and found. I could make more in the mines, but I ain’t never liked caves and tunnels.”
“Name some of the guns Fat hired.”
“Tom Wilson, some guy named Chambers, Dan Segers, Russ Bailey. Then there’s Al Jones, Paul Hunt, and some feller named Pell.”
“Jim Pell?”
“Yes, sir. That’s the one.”
“First rate gun-handler. Anybody else?”
“About ten more. I don’t know their names and stay out of their way. Then there’s Bobby Jewel.”
“He’s a bad one, all right. Luddy, you tell your buddies to stay out of my way. The same goes for you until this mess is over. And it will be over, and then you can go to work for my niece.”
“That’s right nice of you, but her place ain’t big enough to support no whole bunch of punchers.”
“It will be when through.”
There was something in Jensen’s eyes that told Luddy this man planned to take the whole damn valley for his niece. Luddy figured he could do it, too.
Smoke rode straight onto Fat Fosburn’s range, staying just out of the timber, but close enough to reach it in a hurry, should the need arise. He hadn’t ridden a mile before he heard a shout, and that was followed by a gunshot. He stopped and wheeled Buck around. The fools were shooting at him with pistols from about a quarter of a mile away. Six of them. Smoke waited for a moment, then turned Buck and rode into the thick timber. He found a game trail and stayed with it for a few minutes, until coming to a tangle of brush. He circled around it, found a place in the back where he could push through, and swung down from the saddle, taking his rifle and a bandolier of ammunition. He stripped the saddle and bridle from Buck and let him freely roam the small clearing. There was some graze and a few puddles of rainwater gathered. Plenty for as long as Smoke planned to be gone.
He took off his spurs and put them in his saddlebags, took a long drink of water, and slipped out of the tangle, squatting and listening.
Smoke knew immediately these were not manhunters. This bunch was blundering around the woods, making enough noise to raise the dead.
“Over here, Willie!” one shouted.
Smoke sighed. Amateurs.
“What’d you find, George?”
“His trail. Come on. We’ll get that bounty money and have us a high old time with the ladies.”
George and Willie came a-blundering through the timber. Smoke slung his rifle and picked up a good-sized club and hefted it. Then he stepped behind a tree and waited. He didn’t know whether it was George or Willie who came foggin’ through the brush. Whichever it was got yanked out of the saddle and the club laid up alongside his head. Then he sighed once and went to sleep.
Smoke trussed him up and tossed him in the brush, then caught up the spooked horse and quieted it down, leading it off the dim trail and loosely tying the reins to a branch.
The second half of the pair came up as fast as he could in the brush and timber and yelled, “Where are you, George? Sing out, man!”
Smoke stepped out just behind and to one side and laid the club across the would-be tough’s back. The blow knocked him clean out of the saddle and landed him on his face on the rocky ground. Smoke dragged him off the trail and trussed him up beside his careless friend.
“Jackie!” he heard the shout. “Here’s Willie’s horse. And I ain’t seen hide nor hair of George since he shouted out. Ride back to the ranch for more men. We’ll keep Jensen pinned down ‘til you get back.”
“Sure you will,” Smoke muttered. “But only if I get careless and you get real lucky.”
“Mister Fosburn says no bringin’ him back alive,” another voice drifted to Smoke. “He’s to be cold dead. Then we hit the kid and them old wore-out bassards with her.”
That’s all I need to know, Smoke thought, then hauled out the two .45s he’d taken from George and let them bang. For a few seconds, the timber trembled with the sounds of rapid-fire pistols. Smoke heard one man holler, but didn’t know if it was from a hit or a close slug.
Smoke quickly changed positions and unslung his rifle, earing back the hammer. He waited.
There had been six, maybe seven men who had spotted him. George and Willie were out of it. One had ridden back for reinforcements. Three or four hired guns left. He waited.
His cover was not the best, but Smoke stayed put. His clothing was earth-colored, blending in well with the surroundings. He moved only his eyes, knowing that any movement attracts more attention than small noises. His rifle was in a position where he could fire it one-handed, like a pistol, if need be.
His captive came to and began thrashing about and hollering. The guns of Smoke’s pursuers roared and the thrashing ceased.
“You kilt George!” the voice screamed out from where Smoke had left the pair trussed up. “Oh, my Lord, you blowed half his head off.”
“Willie?”
“Yeah.”
“You stay put, now. Don’t move around none. More men’s a-comin’.”
Smoke spotted a flash of a red-and-white-checkered shirt and fired, instantly changing position. He heard a cry and the sounds of a man thudding into a tree or log. Smoke knew he’d made a righteous shot.
“I’m hard hit!” a man groaned. “Oh, God, he’s shot me in the belly.”
“Stay down and quiet. We’ll get you out. The boys will be here in a little while.”
But by then, I’ll be gone, Smoke thought.
On his belly, Smoke began inching his way in a long, slow half circle. As he crawled, he listened to the voices calling back and forth in frustration.
“Cain’t nobody see him?”
“I ain’t seen him yet.”
“I have!” Willie yelled. “Sort of. He’s big as a mountain and meaner than a puma.”
“He’s just a man,” another voice added, and this one was so dose to where Smoke had crawled it startled him.
“Are you sure George is dead, Willie?”
“Sure? Hell, yes, I’m sure. Half his he
ad is gone.”
The man only a few yards from him grew impatient and shifted his weight. Through the thin brush, Smoke could see the man, half-turned away from him. He waited with the patience of a stalking Apache. He man turned his head and Smoke could see his profile. Lucky Harry, a gunfighter from California. Fat had imported some pretty good talent. Willie and George had chosen the wrong profession at the wrong time. But only one of them was left to question the choice … if question it he did.
Willie answered that. “I’m loose!” he hollered. “Damn you, Jensen. Me and George was pards. I’m gonna kill you, do you hear me?”
“Idiot,” Lucky muttered. Then he was gone, moving silently and swiftly out of Smoke’s sight.
Smoke knew that Lucky, and men like him, were as wary as an old wolf. They would take no unnecessary chances. That was why they had stayed alive after years in the man-hunting and gun-for-hire business.
“Damn your murderin’, ambushin’ heart!” Willie yelled, his voice filled with rage. “Stand up and fight me like a man, Jensen.”
Nitwit! Smoke thought. You won’t last in this business, boy.
“Git down, you damn fool!” a man called.
Smoke wasn’t interested in putting lead in Willie; at least, not at this point. The other men were the dangerous ones, and they weren’t going to make any rash moves. Only if Willie threatened him directly would he gun him down.
A slight movement caught Smoke’s eyes. Slowly he lifted his rifle. A man’s arm came into view. Smoke sighted in the arm and squeezed the trigger. The gunhand screamed in pain as the slug ruined his left elbow. He would go through life with limited use of the arm. Smoke rolled from his position as the lead started whining all around him.
He rolled down into a natural depression and stayed there until the lead stopped singing its deadly song. He groaned loud and long, knowing that surely no one would fall for that old ruse.
But Willie did.
“Got him, by God!” Willie shouted, jumping to his feet. “I’ll gut-shoot that sorry no-good.”
“Damn!” Smoke muttered, rolling over on his belly and peering over the lip of the depression.
Willie was running toward his position, a rifle in his hands and a wild look on his face.
Smoke knocked a leg out from under him, the slug striking the young man just above the knee and sending him crashing and hollering to the rocky ground. Willie’s rifle clattered on the rocks as he grabbed at his leg with both hands. He scooted and hunched for cover, bleeding all the way.
“You better hunt you another line of work, boy,” a man’s voice called out from behind rocky cover. “You just ain’t suited for this one.”
Smoke stayed where he was, but shifted a few feet to get behind a bush, scant cover but better than nothing.
The man with the busted elbow could not contain a groan of pain. “I’m bleedin’ bad,” he called out. “And Boots is dead. This ain’t no good.”
“All right,” the man who seemed to be the leader of this bunch called after a few seconds. “Start backin’ down toward where we left the horses. Jensen can’t get out. We’ll just wait.”
“Don’t bet he can’t get out, Walt,” Lucky called. “You don’t know Jensen like I do.”
Has to be Walt May, Smoke thought. I put lead in him ten years ago. So this will be highly personal for Walt.
“I’m clear,” Lucky called. “I got Chookie with me. Willie, you can ride Boots’s horse. He ain’t got no more use for it.”
Chookie must be the one with the busted elbow, Smoke thought.
“I’m a-comin’,” Willie called out. “I got to drag this busted leg. I’ll kill you someday, Jensen!” he screamed out. “Damn you, I’ll kill you.”
Smoke reloaded his guns and waited. The sounds of galloping horses drifted to him and he slipped down and picked up the rifle Willie had dropped, taking it with him. He walked over to Boots and took his guns, slinging the gunbelt over one shoulder and picking up his rifle. He looked at the dead George. A slug had entered the man’s head from the side, just above the temple area, and made a real mess when it exited.
Smoke saddled up and rode out, but he headed north, not south, staying in the timber. Fat’s ranch would be, for the most part, deserted, the men riding hard for the timber. Smoke would see just how much chaos he could cause there, and then ride into town to check on Jenny’s “business” interests.
Smoke sat his saddle and watched the dozen or so men ride south, toward his last position. Smoke figured he had maybe thirty minutes, forty at the most, to do his mischief at Fat’s ranch. Plenty of time. He loaded up all the pistols and kept the best rifle he’d picked up, discarding the other one.
“All right, Buck,” he said. “Let’s go be neighborly and pay a visit to Fat’s spread.”
He stayed on the ridges and in the timber until he was within a half mile of the ranch complex. He could see no one working or loafing around the buildings. Fat was not married, so there was no danger of any women or kids getting hurt. Biggers and Cosgrove were also bachelors. Smoke studied the layout for a few seconds, then smiled.
“Let’s go, Buck,” he said.
He walked Buck slowly down the ridge and onto the flats. A rider who did not appear to be in any rush attracted little attention. Just another wandering cowpoke riding the grub line.
Smoke swung down in front of the bunkhouse and was greeted by a man wearing a stained apron. “Howdy,” the man said. “Coffee’s hot and you can fix you a sandwich, if you like.”
“That’s neighborly of you. Folks down the way told me to avoid this place. They said it was an unfriendly place.”
“It is. That’s why tomorrow’s my last day. I got me a job down South. You best eat ’fore those no- ’count riders Fat hired gets back. That’s the surliest bunch I ever seen in all my life.”
“Why not leave now?” Smoke suggested.
The man looked at Smoke for a long moment. “Oh, my God! You’re …”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll be packed and gone in five minutes!”
“You do that.”
While Smoke was busy wrecking everything in the main house, the cook galloped away. Smoke dumped out and mixed flour and salt and sugar and coffee and beans. He smashed plates and threw pots and pans outside into the dirt. Using his knife, he slashed feather ticks and ruined blankets and easy chairs. He tore down drapes and curtains and threw them into the dirt of the front yard. Then he set about smashing every window in the house by tossing chairs and benches and footstools through them. He hadn’t had so much fun since he was kid. When there was nothing left in the ranchhouse to smash, break, turn over, or throw in the fireplace, Smoke set fire to the outhouses, tore down the corral and set the horses free, then tossed a flaming torch into the bunkhouse. He decided he might as well burn down the barn, too. So he checked the barn for animals, freed the horses from their stalls, and fired the place.
Back in the saddle, he surveyed all that he had done and sat his saddle for a moment, chuckling. There was going to be a lot of very irritated hired guns in about half an hour. And Fat was going to be as mad as a man could get.
Smoke decided he’d ride into the Golden Plum and have him a drink and something to eat.
He’d worked up quite an appetite, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
Sixteen
Stopping just outside of town, Smoke washed up in a creek and brushed the last bits of flour and sugar and so forth from his shirt and jeans. He rode slowly up the twisty street and made sure Sheriff Bowers saw all the gunbelts hanging from his saddle. Bowers’ eyes bugged out at the sight. He didn’t need a professor to tell him that the men who had worn them would no longer be needing them.
“Morning, Sheriff,” Smoke called cheerfully.
“It was,” Club said sourly.
Smoke laughed and rode on. He stabled Buck and walked to the Golden Plum. He took a table at the rear of the place, his back to a wall. “A beer and something to eat, Jeff,�
�� he told the bartender.
“Right, Boss. Comin’ up.”
“How’s business been?”
“Not good. Major Cosgrove ordered his men not to come in here.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You send your swamper to fetch Cosgrove. Tell him Smoke Jensen says for him to haul his big butt over here. Right now. If he doesn’t, I’ll come personally and drag it through the mud in the street.”
Jeff grinned. “Right away, Boss. This I gotta see.”
The swamper left at a trot, just as Club Bowers was walking up. He went to the bar and ordered a beer.
“You’d better not do that, Club,” Smoke called. “Your master has forbidden all his slaves not to patronize this place.”
Bowers turned around slowly. “Nobody tells me where I go, Jensen.”
“Oh, well. If that’s the case, by all means drink up and enjoy yourself. I just didn’t want you to get into trouble with your lord and master.”
“You’re pushin’, Jensen. Where’d you get all those guns hanging around your saddle?”
“I found them on the road. If their owners show up here, send them out to the ranch to claim them.”
“You found them on the road, huh?”
“That’s right. Just piled up there. Maybe they’re broken. I haven’t tried to fire any of them.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Personally, Club, I don’t much give a damn what you believe.”
Club did not take exception to that. Smoke Jensen was a study to him. He knew Smoke’s history and knew that Jensen was not a trouble-hunter—or had not been, up to this point. You had to push him and then he pushed back. But this time the man had ridden into Red Light pushing from the git-go. This kept up, Jensen would be taking scalps before it was all said and done. Club had heard that the man had done it before. He suppressed a shudder at the thought.
Club turned his back to Smoke and sipped at his beer.
Heavy bootsteps pounded on the boardwalk and the batwings were suddenly slammed open. Major Cosgrove’s bulk filled the space. Club turned to look at the man. Major was madder than the sheriff had ever seen him. Jeff stood behind the bar, smiling. Major pointed a finger at Jensen. He was so angry his finger was shaking.
Blood of the Mountain Man Page 12