The men of Hell’s Creek decided they had had enough for this night. Smoke let them make their retreat, even though he could have easily dropped another two or three. He tightened the cinch sfrap, swung into the saddle, and headed south. He found a good place to camp and picketed Star. With his saddle for a pillow, he rolled into his blankets and went to sleep.
Two hours after dawn, he rode into the front yard of Martha Feckles. An idea had formed in his mind over coffee and bacon that morning, and he wanted to see how the widow received it.
“I think it’s a grand idea!” she said.
Barlow had another resident.
Big Max Huggins sat in his office and stared at the wall. His thoughts were dark and violent. At this very moment, that drunken old preacher—he was all that passed for religion in Hell’s Creek—was praying for the lost souls of three of those Jensen had shot in the main street of town last night. Those that had pursued him came back into town, dragging their butts in defeat. They had left six dead on the mountain. One of those had bled to death after the bomb Jensen had thrown tore off half of the man’s arm.
“Goddamn you, Jensen!” Max cursed.
He leaned back in his chair—specially made due to his height and weight. He hated Smoke Jensen, but had to respect him—grudgingly—for his cold nerve. It would take either a crazy person or one with nerves of steel to ride smack into the middle of the enemy. And Smoke Jensen was no crazy person.
What to do about him?
Big Max didn’t have the foggiest idea.
Smoke had put steel into the backbones of those in Barlow. A raid against the town now would be suicide. His men would be shot to pieces. There was no need to send for any outside gunfighters. He had some of the best guns in the West, either on his payroll or working out of the town on a percentage basis of their robberies.
Max’s earlier boast that he would just wait Smoke out was proving to be a hollow brag. Jensen was bringing the fight to him.
Of course, Max mused, he could just pick up and move on. He’d done it many times in the past when things had gotten too hot for him.
But just the thought of that irritated him. In the past, dozens of cops or sheriffs and their deputies had been on his trail. Jensen was just one man. One man!
Max sighed, thinking: But, Jesus, what a man.
It was a good thing he’d invited those friends of his from Europe. A damn good thing. They would be arriving just in time.
The good ladies of Barlow welcomed Martha Feckles and her children with open arms. The mayor gave her a small building to use for her sewing. And Judge Garrison, now that he was free of the heavy hand of Max Huggins, was proving to be a decent sort of fellow. He staked Martha for a dress shop.
The preacher and schoolteacher had arrived in town. The newspaper man was due in at any time. Some of those who had left when Max first put on the pressure were returning. Barlow now had a population of nearly four hundred. And growing.
The jail was nearly full. Each time the stage ran north, Smoke jerked out any gamblers, gunfighters, and whores who might be on it and turned them around. If they kicked up a fuss, they were tossed in the clink, fined, and were usually more than happy to catch the next stage out—south.
A depty U.S. Marshal, on his way up to British Columbia to bring back a prisoner, was on the stage the morning a gunslick objected to being turned around.
“There ain’t no warrants out on me, Jensen,” the man protested. “You ain’t got no right to turn me around. I can go anywheres I damn well please to go.”
“That’s right,” Smoke told him. “Anywhere except Hell’s Creek.”
Amused, the U. S. Marshal leaned against a post and rolled himself a cigarette, listening to the exchange. He knew all about Hell’s Creek and Big Max Huggins. But until somebody complained to the government, there was little they could do. He knew the sheriff, the city marshal, and all the deputies in Hell’s Creek were crooked as a snake. But the outlaws working out of there never bothered anyone with a federal badge, and as far as he knew, there were no federal warrants on anyone in the town—at least not under the names they were going by now.
“Git out of my way, Jensen!” the gunny warned Smoke.
“Don’t be a fool, man,” Smoke told him. “You’re in violation of the law by bracing me. I don’t have any papers on you. So why don’t you just go to the hotel, get you a room, and catch the next stage out?”
“South?”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll rent me a horse and go to Hell’s Creek.”
“Sorry, friend,” Smoke told him. “No one in this town will rent you a horse.”
“Then I think I’ll get back on the stage and ride up yonder like my ticket says.”
Smoke hit him. The punch came out of the blue and caught the gunny on the side of the jaw. When he hit the ground, he was out cold.
Jim and Sal dragged him across the street to the jail.
“Slick,” the U.S. Marshal said. “Against the law, but slick.”
“You going to report what I’m doing?” Smoke asked.
“Hell, no, man! But I can tell you that the word’s gone out up and down the line: You’re a marked man. Huggins has put big money on your head. And I’m talkin’ enough money to bring in some mercenaries from Europe.”
“Are they in the country?”
“As near as the Secret Service can tell, yes. Two long-distance shooters, Henri Dubois and Paul Mittermaier, are on their way west right now. Our office has sent out flyers to you. Oh, yes. We know what you’re doing here. We can’t give you our blessings, but we can close our eyes.”
“Thanks. Dubois and Mittermaier—Frenchman and a German?”
“Yep. And they’re good.”
“I don’t like back-shooters. I’ll tell you now, Marshal: If I see them, I’m going to kill them.”
“Suits me, Smoke. Good hunting.” He climbed back on board the stage and was gone.
Smoke turned to Jim and Sal, who had just returned from the jail. “You hear that?”
They had heard it.
“Pass the word to all the farmers and ranchers. Any strangers, especially those speaking with an accent, I want to know about. You boys watch your backs.”
Sal spat on the ground. “I hate a damned back-shooter,” he said. “These boys are gonna be totin’ some fancy custom-made rifles. I see one, I’m gonna plug him on the spot and apologize later if I’m wrong.”
“You know what this tells me?” Smoke asked. “It tells me that Max is in a bind. What we’re doing is working. We can’t legally stop and permanently block freight shipments to Hell’s Creek. But we can hold them up and make them open up every box and crate for search. And I mean a very long and tedious search. It won’t take long for freight companies to stop accepting orders from Hell’s Creek.”
Jim and Sal grinned. “Oh, you got a sneaky mind, Smoke,” Sal said. “I like it!”
“The last freight wagons rolled through a week ago,” Jim said. “There ought to be another convoy tomorrow, I figure.”
“OK,” Smoke said. He looked at Sal. “You get a couple of town boys. Give them a dollar apiece to stand watch about two miles south of town. As soon as they hear the wagons, one of them can come fogging back to town for us. Everything going north has got to pass through here.” Smoke smiled. “This is going to give Max fits!”
The men grinned at each other. One sure way to kill a town was to dry up its supply line. Big Max was not going to like this.
Not one little bit.
9
“Some of the boys is grumblin’ about you puttin’ up money on Jensen’s head and then lettin’ them foreigners come over here,” one of Max’s gunhands complained.
Max spread his hands. “I put up the money, Lew. Anybody who nails Jensen gets it. As far as Dubois and Mittermaier are concerned, they’re old friends of mine. I sent for them long before Jensen entered the picture. Besides, they are much more subtle in their approach than most of those ou
t there.” He waved his hand. “You and I, of course, could handle it easily. I’m not too sure about the others.”
The outlaw knew he was getting a line of buffalo chips fed him, but the flattery felt good anyway. “Right, Big Max. Sure. I understand. What do I tell the boys?”
“Tell them . . .” Max was thinking hard. “Tell them that we must be careful in disposing of Jensen. If we draw too much attention to us, the government might send troops in here and put us all out of business.”
“Yeah,” Lew said. “Yeah, you’re right. They’ll understand that, Max. I’ll pass the word.”
After Lew had left, Max leaned back in his chair. What next? he thought. What is Jensen going to do next?
“What are y’all lookin’ for?” the teamster asked.
“Contraband,” Smoke told him. “Unload your wagons.”
The teamster paled under his stubble of beard and tanned skin. “All the wagons? Everything in them?”
“All the wagons, everything in them.”
Griping and muttering under their breaths, the men unloaded the wagons, and Smoke and Jim and Sal went to work with pry-bars. With his back to the teamsters, Smoke pulled a small packet from under his shirt and dropped it in a box. “Check this box, Sal,” he said. “I’ll be opening some others.”
“Right, Smoke.”
After a moment, Sal called out, “Marshal, I got something that looks funny.”
Smoke walked over. “The box says it’s supposed to have whiskey in it. What’s that in your hand?”
“Durned if I know.” He handed the packet to Smoke.
Smoke had found the contents way in the back of the safe in the marshal’s office. It was several thousand dollars of badly printed counterfeit greenbacks.
Smoke opened the packet. “Hey!” he said, holding one of the greenbacks up to the sunlight. “This looks phony to me.”
A teamster walked over. “What is that?”
“Counterfeit money,” Smoke told him. “This is real serious. You could be in a lot of trouble.”
“Me!” the teamster shouted. “I ain’t done nothin’.”
“You’re hauling this funny money,” Smoke reminded him.
“Well, that’s true. But that phony money sure as hell ain’t mine.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Smoke eased his fears. “But this entire shipment is going to have to be seized and held for evidence. ”
“Marshal, you can have it all. Me and my boys work for a living. We’re not printing no government money.”
“Is this shipment prepaid?”
“Yes, sir. Everything sent to Hell’s Creek is paid for in advance. That’s the only way the boss would agree to do business with them thugs up yonder.”
“So you and your men would prefer not to do business with those in Hell’s Creek?”
“That’s the gospel truth, Mr. Jensen. There ain’t a one of us like the run past Barlow.”
“All right, boys. You’re free to turn around and head on back. We’re sorry to have inconvenienced you.”
After the wagons had gone, the men nearly broke up laughing as they stood amid the mounds of boxed supplies. Wiping his eyes, Smoke said, “Sal, go get some wagons and men from town. We’ve got to store all this stuff.”
“Bit Max is gonna toss himself a royal fit when he hears about this,” Sal said. “This here is food and supplies for a month.”
“Yeah. I figure they have probably a month’s supplies left on the shelves. After that, things are going to get desperate in Hell’s Creek.”
Sal headed back to town and Jim said, “You know, Smoke, Max can’t let you get away with this. His men would lose all respect for him.”
“Yeah, I know. This may be the fuel to pop the lid off. What’s the latest on Red Malone; have you heard?”
“Not a peep. I ’spect he’s still recovering from that beatin’ you gave him.”
“He’s got to have a meeting with Max. They’ll get together and try to plan some way to get rid of me.”
“No way to cover all the trails up to Hell’s Creek. There must be a dozen, and probably a few more that I don’t know about.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t try to do that. But I was thinking: Red has to buy supplies and he buys them in Barlow. It would be too time-consuming and costly to go anywhere else. Marbly hates Red. He never did knuckle under to him. He told me himself he still has the right to refuse service to anyone.”
Jim smiled. “Oh, now that would tick Red off. He’d go right through the ceiling.”
Smoke chuckled. “I’m counting on it, Jim. I am really counting on it.”
“He did what?” Big Max roared, jumping up from his chair and pounding a fist on his desk.
The outlaw Val Singer repeated what he had heard.
“That’s why the damn supplies didn’t arrive yesterday,” Max said, sitting down and doing his best to calm himself. “Jensen ... that low-life, no-good, lousy ...” He spent the next few moments calling Smoke every filthy name he could think of. And he thought of a lot of them.
Big Max shook himself like a bear with fleas and took several deep breaths. What to do? was the next thought that sprang into his angry mind.
Thing about it was, he didn’t know.
“Burn the damn town down,” Val suggested.
“They’d rebuild it,” Max said glumly.
“Grab some of their kids, then.”
“I have been giving that some thought, for a fact. But we’d have to be very careful doing it, Val. Very subtle.”
Val smiled, a nasty glint in his eyes. “That daughter of Martha Feckles is prime. She could pleasure a lot of us.”
Big Max had thought of Aggie a time or two. For a fact. Something ugly and archaic reared up within him when he thought of Aggie.
He could envision all sorts of perversions, all with Aggie in the lead role ... with him.
“I’ll think about it,” Max said, his voice husky.
Days passed and there was no retaliation from either Big Max or Red Malone. And that worried Smoke. To his mind, it meant that Max and Red were planning something very ugly and very sneaky. He warned everybody in town to keep a careful eye on their kids, to know where they were at all times. He warned the women to never walk alone, to plan shopping trips in groups. He visited everyone who lived just outside of town and warned them to be very, very careful.
He rode out into the county, visiting the small ranchers and farmers, repeating his message of caution at every stop.
“What do you think they’re gonna do, Mr. Jensen?” Brown asked. Smoke had stopped in for coffee.
“I don’t know, Brown. I wish I did so I could head it off. Whatever Max does, and probably Red Malone, too, is going to be dirty. Bet on that.”
“Would the army come in if we was to ask them?”
“No. This is a civilian matter. I can’t tell you who told me this, but I was told that the government is going to turn its back and let us handle it the way we see fit.”
“That seems odd. I mean, why would they?”
“I’ve worn a U.S. Marshal’s badge a time or two, Brown.”
Smoke had worn a marshal’s badge before, but that didn’t mean the government owed him any favors. He hoped Brown wouldn’t push the matter, and the farmer didn’t.
“If we got to go clean out that bunch at Hell’s Creek, or if we got to ride agin’ Malone and his bunch of trash, you can count me and all my neighbors in, Smoke.”
Smoke smiled. “The word I got is that you farmers won’t fight. That you’re scared.”
“You believe that?”
“Not for one second, Brown. I got a hunch you’re all Civil War veterans.”
“We are. Gatewood and Cooter fought on the side of the South, rest of us wore blue. But that’s behind us now. We seldom ever talk about it no more. And when we do, it ain’t with no rancor. Funny thing is, we never knowed each other during the war. We just met up on the trail and become friends. But don’t never think we won’t fight, S
moke. Some hoodlums along the trail thought that. We buried them.”
They chatted for a while longer and then Smoke pulled out, heading back to Barlow. He had him a hunch that Max Huggins had already sounded out Brown and Cooter and the other farmers in that area. Max was no fool, far from it, and he had guessed—and guessed accurately—that tackling that bunch would be foolhardy. Like most men of his ilk, Max preferred the easy way over the hard.
He pulled up in front of his office and swung down, curious about the horses tied to the hitchrail. He did not recognize the brand.
He looped the reins around the rail and stepped up on the boardwalk. The door to his office opened and several men filed out, one of them wearing the badge of sheriff of the county.
“You Jensen?” the man asked, a hard edge to his voice.
“That’s right.”
The man held out his hand. “I’ll take your badge, Jensen. I name my deputies.”
“This badge is legal, partner. Judge Garrison swore me in and he has the power to do it. So that means that you can go right straight to hell.”
The sheriff shook a finger in Smoke’s face. “Now let me tell you something....”
Smoke slapped the finger away and his hand returned a lot harder. He backhanded the crooked sheriff a blow that jarred the man and stepped him to one side.
“Don’t you ever stick your finger in my face again,” Smoke warned him. “The next time you do it, I’ll break it off at the elbow and put it in a place that’ll have you riding sidesaddle for a long time.”
Sal and Jim had stepped out of the office, both of them carrying sawed-off shotguns. It made the sleazebag sheriffs deputies awfully nervous.
“Come on, Cart,” one of his men said. “I told you this wouldn’t work.”
Smoke laughed. “You have to be Paul Cartwright. Sure. I remember reading about you. You served time in California for stealing while you were a lawman out there. Get out of this town, Cartwright.”
War of the Mountain Man Page 8