War of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Back off, Paul,” Henri said softly.

  “What’s the matter?” Wesson said with a sneer. “Your buddy have to do your fightin’ for you?”

  Paul drew back a fist and Wesson popped him on the nose. Henri gave Wesson a blow to the jaw just as the saloon cleared, all of Joe’s hands pouring out. The Circle W crew then proceeded to kick the snot out of the pair of assassins, leaving them unconscious on the street.

  “Clear out,” Smoke told them. “I’ll see you all come Saturday night. Thanks, boys.”

  “Our pleasure, Smoke,” Curly grinned around the words. He looked down at the unconscious and badly battered men. “Them ol’ boys won’t be doin’ much of anything for a week or two. Maybe longer.”

  The Circle We crew rode out of town.

  “Now what?” Jim asked.

  Smoke grinned and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a bottle of opium-based elixir. “I bought a full case of this from a drummer last week. By the time these two wake up, they’re going to be on a train, heading back east. Come on, help me drag them off the street.”

  They dragged the unconscious men into an alley and stripped them of their duded-up clothes, dressing them in filthy, ragged shirts and jeans. Henri moaned and tried to sit up. Smoke popped him on the noggin with a cosh he’d taken to carrying and the Frenchman laid back down.

  With the two men now dressed like bums, Smoke poured a half bottle of knock-out medicine down each of their throats and placed then in the back of a freight wagon.

  “Keep them unconscious,” Smoke told the grinning freighters who had been more than willing to participate in the game. Anything to get rid of Max Huggins and his gang of outlaws. “When you get down to Helena, pour a bottle of the elixer down them and toss them in an empty eastbound railcar. They’ll be somewhere in Nebraska when they wake up.”

  “Will do, Smoke,” the freighter told him. “Don’t worry about a thing. Man, this is more fun than I thought it’d be. We was lookin’ forward to seeing a shoot-out; but, hell, this is better.” Laughing, the freighters pulled out, joining other empty freight wagons on the pull back south.

  “Now what do you have in the back of that devious mind of yourn?” Sal asked, unable to wipe the grin off his face.

  “Let’s go inspect their luggage. I want to see these fancy guns that were going to be used to kill me.”

  Sal whistled when Smoke opened the gun cases. Both men had seen rifles of this type before, but neither had seen one so duded-up. They were Winchester high-wall, falling block rifles. Single shot.

  Smoke hefted one. The rifle had been reworked and the balance was perfect. The telescope was about two feet long, and the shells looked like either the German or the Frenchman or both had carefully and painstakingly loaded their own.

  “That bullet would travel about three miles before it knocked you down,” Sal said, inspecting one cartridge.

  “You know,” Smoke said, “most guns are tools. A man uses one snake-killing, or varmint-killing, or to protect himself or his loved ones. I’ve driven tacks and nails in horseshoes with the butt of my pistols. But these rifles are meant for only one thing.”

  “Yeah,” Sal agreed, closing the lid to the gun case. “Man-killin’.”

  13

  The people started coming into town for the dance and box supper during the middle of the day on a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

  Most would spend the night camped under their wagons, or in the wagon bed under canvas if it was raining. A few took rooms at the Grand Hotel.

  Just before dusk, Smoke had taken his bath and dressed in a black suit, white shirt with string tie, and slipped into his just-polished boots. He strapped on his guns and looked in on Sally. She had dressed in a simple gingham outfit; but with Sally, she could make a flour sack look good.

  She gave her hair a final pat and turned to Smoke. “Are you expecting trouble tonight, honey?”

  “Yes, I am. When Joe Walsh’s crew meet up with Red Malone’s Lightning crew, anything is apt to happen.”

  “All the crews coming in?”

  “As far as I know. Joe really stripped his herds this spring, keeping mostly young stuff. So night-herding is not that essential.”

  “Shooting trouble?”

  “No. We’ve taken care of that. All guns will be checked upon entering the dance area. If any object to that, they can carry their butts back home. If any trouble starts, it will be fists.”

  “But you and Sal and Jim will be armed?”

  Smoke smiled. “Oh, yes, honey.”

  “This promises to be quite an interesting night.”

  “That ... is one way of putting it, yes.”

  They walked down the stairs and were a head-turning couple, Sally a beautiful woman and Smoke a strikingly handsome man in a rugged sort of way.

  They joined Dr. and Mrs. Turner in the hotel dining room for coffee.

  “I will say this, Smoke,” Robert said. “I find the people of Barlow a refreshing change from the hoodlums and rowdies of Hell’s Creek. We both like it here.”

  “I’m glad you do. And I hope you decide to stay. It’s going to be a growing little town.”

  “But you and Sally will eventually move on?”

  “Oh, yes. Back to the Sugarloaf. It’s home. We’ll get this situation straightened out here and be back home in early fall.”

  “Will there be trouble tonight?” Vicky asked.

  “Probably,” Smoke gave her an honest reply. “But it won’t be gunplay.”

  “Anyone from Hell’s Creek made an appearance yet?” Robert asked.

  “Not to my knowledge. But they’ll be along. They can’t afford not to show up.”

  They looked up, and Tom Walsh and his Circle W crew rode in and dismounted. Tom drove the buggy, sitting beside his wife. Mrs. Walsh joined the ladies in the dining room, while Smoke and Dr. Turner stepped outside to join Joe and his crew.

  “All right, boys,” Smoke spoke to the Circle W hands. “This is the way it’s going to be this night. When you enter the dance and box supper area, you check your guns with Mrs. Marbly. The only people who will be armed will be me and my deputies. And I’ve appointed several special deputies for this night. Anyone who doesn’t think they can abide by that rule, haul your ashes out of town.”

  “Suits me,” Curly was the first to speak. “But it’s gonna be interestin’ to see you take Melvin Malone’s guns offen him.”

  “I’ll take them,” Smoke replied. “Or tomorrow his dad will be burying him.”

  Tom Johnson, one of the special deputies, rode in from the north, just as Benson, another of the special deputies, rode up from the south end of town. Johnson said, “Big Max and half a dozen of his gunslicks coming in.”

  “Red Malone and his crew are just outside of town,” Benson added.

  “Get your shotguns, boys,” Smoke said. “Line up with me on the boardwalk.”

  Johnson, Marbly, Benson, and Toby got sawed-off shotguns and lined up in front of the hotel, two on each side of Smoke. Jim and Sal stood a dozen yards off, one on each side of the five. They too were armed with Greeners.

  Smoke knew some of the men who rode in with Max: Alex Bell, Dave Poe, Val Singer. He did not know the others with them. But he knew the breed: hired guns.

  “I don’t like this,” Val muttered, eyeballing the shotgun-armed men on the boardwalk.

  “Relax,” Max told him. “It’s just a show of force.”

  “Hell of a welcoming committee, boss,” John Steele said.

  “Don’t nobody do nothin’stupid,” Red Malone said to his men. “Them express guns would kill everybody in the whole damn street. Let’s find out what’s going on.”

  One of Red’s hands was driving the buggy with the elegantly gowned Tessie. She took one look at Smoke and said, “Oohhh, I think I’m in love!”

  In heat would be more like it, the hand thought. But he kept that to himself.

  Tessie’s exploits were known throughout the entire county—and
several adjacent counties.

  The crews of Max and Red swung their horses and faced Smoke and his deputies.

  “Good evening, gentlemen, Miss Tessie,” Smoke said. “Welcome to Barlow.”

  “What’s the idea of all this force?” Red demanded in a loud voice.

  Smoke ignored him. “It’s a beautiful night, people, so we decided to move everything outdoors. The dance area is roped off, as is the box supper area. We have plenty of chairs and benches for your comfort if you didn’t bring blankets to sit on. That tent set up just before you enter the entertainment area is where you will check your guns.”

  Smoke had stepped off the boardwalk as he was speaking, moving close to Mel Malone.

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll check my guns!” the young man said. Smoke jerked him off his horse, slapped him twice, ripped the gunbelt from him, and tossed guns and belt into a horse trough. He did it so quickly no one had a chance to interfere.

  Smoke faced the young man as he spoke to his deputies. “Anybody who makes a grab for a gun, start killing the whole bunch of them.”

  Hammers were eared back on the sawed-off shotguns and the muzzles leveled at the mounted men.

  “Now, hold on!” Red bellowed. Sawed-off shotguns at this range would tear them all apart.

  Smoke grabbed Melvin by his fancy shirt and jerked him close. “You say one more word to me about what you’re not going to do, sonny-boy, and I’ll break both your goddamn arms so you’ll never be able to pick up a gun again. You understand me?”

  For the first time in his life, Melvin Malone knew real fear. It clutched at him, souring his stomach. He looked into the eyes of Smoke Jensen and saw death staring back at him. Death rode a fiery horse and the grim reaper wore the face of Smoke Jensen.

  “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I understand.” Then rage overrode fear and the young man made up his mind. He carried a hide-out gun behind his belt buckle.

  Smoke released him. He was expecting a sneak-play from the young man and was ready for it.

  Mel grabbed for his Remington over-and-under .41 derringer and Smoke hit him. Smoke’s big fist smashed into the young man’s face, flattening his nose and knocking him flat on his butt in the street. Before Mel could shake the birds and bells and buzzing bees out of his head, Smoke had rolled him over and clamped handcuffs tight around his wrists.

  Smoke straightened up. “Take him to jail, Jim. The charge is disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, and attempted murder of a peace officer. Bond, if any, will be set by Judge Garrison in the morning. That’s it, people. Check your guns with Mrs. Marbly and have fun.”

  Smoke walked back onto the boardwalk, turned, and faced the mounted men.

  Red cut his eyes to the south. A dozen men, all armed with rifles, stood in the street, blocking any escape. Max followed the glance, grunted, and then looked toward the north. Another dozen men, all heavily armed, blocked the north end of the street.

  “I think,” Alex Bell said with unusual restraint, “that we’uns better check our guns and get ready for the dance.”

  “We’ll do that,” Red said, swinging his gaze back to Smoke. “and there’ll be no trouble in this town tonight. Not by any of my people. But you’ll not try my boy on them charges, Jensen.”

  “He’ll be tried, Red. And if convicted, he’d do his time in the territorial prison. Now hear me well, all of you. The days of lawlessness are over in this town. The days of any of you riding roughshod over decent, law-abiding people have ended. Pull in your horns and act right, or die. That’s the only choice I’m going to give any of you. If any of you cause trouble at tonight’s festivities, I’ll kill you. I’ll shoot you down like a rabid skunk and drag your carcass off and stick it in the first hole I come to. And if it’s the lime pit of an old privy, that’ll do just fine. Now stable your horses and check your guns.”

  Max was the first to move. He backed his horse and rode to the livery stable, Red and the others following. And it was a silent following. Not one of them doubted that Smoke Jensen meant every word they’d just heard him say.

  In the stable, Val Singer said, “I’d hate to think I had to spend eternity in a shit-pit.”

  “And Jensen would do it, too,” Alex Bell said.

  “We got to do something about Jensen, Max,” Dave Poe said. “And we got to do it damn quick.”

  “I know. Did you boys notice anything riding into town?”

  No one had.

  “Then open your damn eyes!” Max snapped at them “Look around you. You’re supposed to be gunfighters, men who live by your wits. Hell, boys, there are Water barrels everywhere. Full barrels. With buckets close by. This very stable is where the town used to keep their pumper. It’s gone. That means that Jensen outguessed us ... again. He guessed we might try to burn him out, and they’re prepared for it.

  “Did any of you see the clearing of brush that’s been done around the town? And up on the ridges where a sharpshooter might hide? There is no place. Not anymore. The town is ready for an attack.”

  “Where is them high-priced sharpshooters from Europe that was comin’ in?” Val asked.

  “I don’t know,” Max admitted. “They should have been here by now. Unless ...” he mused aloud. Then he shook his head. “No. Jensen had no way of knowing they were coming in. And neither one of them carries a sidearm . . . where it can be seen. He’d have no reason to pull them off the stage. I can but assume they are on their way in.”

  One of the gunslingers unbuckled his gunbelt and draped it over his shoulder. “Well,” he drawled. “Let’s go be good little boys and check our guns and dance with some real ladies, and then we’ll eat some home cookin’ for a change.”

  Smoke stood on the edge of the lantern-lighted perimeter and let Curly from the Circle W and a redheaded hand from the Lightning brand slug it out. He had no idea what had started the fracas, but as long as no guns were involved, he had told his deputies to let the men fight, but to just keep it away from the ladies.

  “Anybody that would work for Red Malone would eat road apples,” Curly told the puncher.

  Red flattened him.

  Curly jumped up, butted Red in the stomach with his head, and both of them went rolling across the dirt. Curly came up on top and proceeded to rearrange Red’s face for him.

  Smoke finally pulled the man off the Lightning puncher. “That’s enough, Curly. He’s out of it. Kill him and the matter becomes something other than a fistfight.”

  The blacksmith, Benson, grabbed Curly and led him off to a horse trough. Benson, strong as a grizzly bear, picked Curly up and dunked him headfirst into the trough several times.

  “Now cool down, man,” Benson told him. “Your sweetie’s box is gonna be comin’ up soon. You miss the bid on it and she’ll never speak to you again.” Benson was holding him by his boots, upside down.

  “You do have a point,” Curly sputtered. “Now turn me a-loose.”

  “You sure?” Benson asked.

  “Damn right, I’m sure.”

  Benson turned him loose and Curly dropped headfirst into the horse trough.

  Everybody gathered around, including Max and Red, had a good laugh at that.

  Curly came up for air, sputtering and cussing.

  Smoke walked to where Dr. Turner was kneeling down beside the moaning cowboy.

  “He’ll be all right,” the doctor said. “His nose is broken and he’s lost some teeth, but I can’t find any broken ribs. He’ll be sore for a few days. Barbaric method of settling arguments,” he added.

  “Beats the hell out of guns,” Smoke told him.

  “You have a point,” the doctor conceded.

  The rest of the evening went smoothly, with no more trouble. The bidding on the boxes was fast and sometimes heavy, depending on whether two young men were courting the same young lady. Smoke bid on Mrs. Walsh’s box and Joe bid on Sally’s, and everybody seemed to have a good time. Even Max got into the spirit of things and was laughing and telling jokes to the ladies
... clean jokes.

  After everyone had eaten and the dancing began, Max walked over to Smoke, standing in the shadows.

  “You really think you’ve got the bull by the horns, now, don’t you, Jensen?”

  “Or riding a tiger.”

  Max chuckled. “Yes. The old East Indian proverb. I know it. And you surely must know, Smoke, that we of Hell’s Creek are not simply going to give up and desert the town.”

  “You’d be smart if you did.”

  “No way, Jensen. You’ve backed us into a corner. We have to fight.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Innocent people will be hurt ... killed.”

  “That’s usually the way it goes.” He turned slightly to face Max. “Take some advice, Max: Pull out. Break up your gangs and leave the country. If you stay, I’m going to have to kill you. You must know that.”

  “Or I’ll kill you.”

  “A lot of men have tried that, Max. I’ve soaked up a lot of lead in my day. I’m still here.”

  “Oh, I think Melvin is as good as you are. And you’ll never bring that boy to trial, Smoke.”

  “Maybe not. We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  “And maybe I have a couple of aces in the hole, Smoke.”

  “By the names of Henri Dubois and Paul Mittermaier?”

  Max’s smile was not in the least pleasant to look at. The big man sighed in disgust. He had been counting on the back-shooting pair.

  “I’ve got their fancy rifles locked up in my office. Those two are halfway back to New York City by now. They’re so doped up it’ll be days before they even know who they are, much less where they are.”

  Max chuckled. Outlaw, killer, thief, he nevertheless had a sense of humor. And while he did not like being bested, he could still appreciate—however reluctantly—the method that was used in doing so.

  “Slick, Jensen. I keep underestimating you. I’ve got to stop doing that. Jensen, what is the point of your interference? Is this what you’re going to do for the rest of your life, stick your damn nose in other peoples’ affairs?”

  “I hope not, Max. To tell the truth, my wife and I came up here to visit friends. Nothing else.”