Smoke and Jim took their beers to a table across the room from the arsonists and began whispering to each other, knowing that would arouse some suspicion from the men who had torched the farmhouses and barns.
It didn’t take long.
“What are you two a-whisperin’ about over there?” one burly man called across the room.
Smoke looked at him just as the stew and bread was being placed on the table. “None of your damn business.”
The man flushed and started to get up. One of his buddies pulled him back into the chair. “Let it alone, Sonny. They ain’t worth our time.”
“I ain’t so sure about that,” Sonny said, giving Smoke a good once-over. “I seen that face afore.”
“That’s Murtaugh talkin’,” Smith whispered. “Watch your step, Jim. They’re all bad ones.”
“Now the damn barkeep’s whisperin’!” Sonny yelled.
Smith turned and faced him. “It’s my goddamn store, lunkhead. I’ll whisper anytime I take a notion to.”
“Who you callin’ a lunkhead, you old goat?” Sonny hollered.
“You, you big-mouth ninny!” Smith fired back, moving toward the bar. There, he reached behind him and came around with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He eared back both hammers and pointed it at Sonny. “Now, then, mule-mouth, you got anything else you’d like to say to me?”
Sonny’s complexion, not too good to begin with, lightened appreciably as he looked at the twin barrels of the express gun, pointing straight at him. Those around him took on the expression of a very sad basset hound, knowing that if Smith pulled the triggers, someone would be picking them up with a shovel and a spoon.
“I reckon not,” Sonny finally managed to say.
“Good.” Smith eased down the hammers and laid the shotgun on the bar. “That’s just dandy. Use your mouth to eat and drink, and stop flappin’ that thing at me.”
With a scowl on his ugly face, Sonny turned away, but not before giving Smoke another dirty look.
The stew smelled good and tasted even better. The bread was lavishly buttered, and Smoke and Jim fell to eating.
“Bring us some of that stew,” Murtaugh called.
“Dollar a bowl,” Smith told him.
“A dollar a bowl! Hell, man, that’s plumb unreasonable.”
“Then go hungry.”
“I’ll take another bowl,” Jim said. “That’s fine eatin’.”
“You better see the color of his money afore you dish up anymore grub to him,” Murtaugh said. “He don’t look like he’s very flush to me.”
“You worry about your own self,” Jim verbally fired across the room. “I got money, and I earned it decent.”
“What’d you mean by that?” the arsonist asked.
“Just what I said.”
“You sayin’ I ain’t decent?”
“You said that, not me. Now hush up. I’m tryin’to eat, not jaw with you.”
Murtaugh gave him a dirty look. “Maybe you think you’re hoss enough to shut me up?”
“Just as soon as I finish eatin’, mister.”
“Anybody busts up furniture, they pay for it,” Smith said.
“They started this war of words,” Smoke pointed out. “All we did was come in for a drink and some food.”
“That’s right,” Jim said, spooning stew into his mouth. “Sad state of affairs when a man can’t even eat without havin’ to listen to all sorts of jibber-jabber from lunkheads.”
“Now, I ain’t puttin’ up with no saddle-bum callin’ me a lunkhead!” Murtaugh stood up. He walked across the room. “I better hear some apologies comin’ out of that mouth of yourn, cowboy,” he said to Jim.
Jim grinned up at him. His right hand was holding a spoon, his left hand out of sight.
Jim belched loudly. “There’s your apology, big-mouth. Catch it and carry it back acrost the room with you.”
Murtaugh cursed and swung a big fist at Jim’s head. But Jim anticipated the punch and ducked it, coming out of the chair and driving his fist into the bigger man’s stomach. Murtaugh bent over, gagging. Jim grabbed the man by his hair and slammed his forehead onto the tabletop. Turning the stunned Murtaugh around, and grabbing him by the collar and the seat of his britches, Jim propelled him across the room, dumping him onto the table he had just exited.
“You boys best look after him,” Jim told Murtaugh’s buddies. “He can’t seem to take care of hisself atall.”
Sonny looked around him. Smith was holding the Greener, hammers back, pointed at him.
Jim walked bak to his table and looked at the spilled stew. “Get the money for this from Murtaugh,” he told Smith. “It was his head that spilt it.”
“I’ll be damned!” Murtaugh said, and charged across the room at Jim, both fists whipping the air.
Jim picked up a chair and hit the rampaging Murtaugh in the face with it. The firebug hit the floor, on his back, and did not move. His face was bloody and several teeth had departed his mouth to take up residence on the floor.
“That does it,” Sonny said, rising from his chair. He looked at Smith. “You gonna take a side in this?”
Smoke stood up, brushing back his coat, exposing his .44’s. “Stay out of it, Smith. We’re deputy sheriffs from down Barlow way. These men are wanted for arson and destruction of livestock. Any damage to your place will be taken care of.”
“That’s fair. I know Jim and you look familiar to me. Who you be, mister?”
“Smoke Jensen.”
Sonny suddenly looked sick. And so did the other four with him.
“Have mercy!” Smith said.
“We ain’t done nothin’ to nobody and we ain’t destroyed no livestock,” Sonny said.
Murtaugh groaned on the floor and sat up. He blinked a couple of times and wiped his bloody mouth with the back of his hand. “What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“You’re under arrest,” Jim told him.
“Your aunt’s drawers, I am!” Murtaugh’s hand dropped to the butt of his gun at just about the same time Jim kicked him in the face. Murtaugh hit the floor again and this time he was out for the count.
Sonny grabbed for his gun and Smoke shot him in the belly. The outlaw stumbled backward and sat down hard on the floor, both hands holding his .44-caliber-punctured belly. He started hollering.
One of his buddies jerked iron and Jim took him out of the game with a slug to the shoulder.
The trading post erupted in gunsmoke and lead. The booming of .44’s and .45’s rattled the windows and shook the glasses behind the bar. Things really got lively when Smith leveled his Greener and blew one outlaw clear out of the barroom, the charge of rusty nails, ball bearings, tacks, and whatever else Smith could find to load his shells nearly tearing the man in two, picking him off his boots, and tossing him out a window.
One outlaw, gut-shot and screaming in pain, dropped his pistols and went staggering out into the other room. He died underneath the table holding five-cent bottles of Dr. Farrigut’s elixir for the remedying of paralysis, softening of the brain, and mental imbecility.
When the dust and bird-droppings from the ceiling and gunsmoke began to clear the room, three arsonists were dead, one was not long for this world, and Murtaugh was again trying to sit up, blood from his broken nose streaming down his chin. The punk Jim had shot through the shoulder was leaning up against a wall, moaning in pain.
“My, my,” Smith said, picking out the empties from his Greener and loading up. “I ain’t seen such a sight in two ... three years. Things was gettin’ plumb borin’ around here. Them no-goods really burn some folks out?”
“Five families,” Smoke told him, punching out his empty brass and reloading. “All good people. I suspect Big Max Huggins paid them to do it.”
“I’ll talk,” the shoulder-shot outlaw hollered. “It was Big Max who paid us to do it. I’ll testify in court. I’ll tell ...”
Murtaugh palmed a hide-out gun and shot the man between the eyes, closing his mouth forever.<
br />
Smoke slammed the barrel of his .44 against Murtaugh’s head, and for the third time in about three minutes, the outlaw went to sleep on the floor.
“Gimme ten dollars for the winder and you give whatever else is in their pockets to them folks that was burnt out,” Smith said. “That fair?”
“Plenty fair,” Jim said. “The families will thank you.”
Smoke tied Murtaugh’s hands behind his back with rawhide and straightened up. “We’ll help you bury this trash, Smith. Then I’ll get a signed statement from you attesting to the fact that you heard that one”—he pointed to the man with a hole beween his eyes—“confessing as to who paid them. You won’t have to appear in court.”
“Good enough,” Smith said. “Shovel’s in the back. I’ll get my old woman to sing a death chant for them. She’s Flathead. Does a nice job of it, too. Right touchin’, some folks say.”
Smoke put all the guns in a sack and tied it to a saddle horn, while Jim readied the horses for travel back to Barlow. The guns and horses and saddles they would give to the farmers who were burned out. The men had about five hundred dollars between them. That would go a long way toward rebuilding the homes and barns and smokehouses.
Morning Dove was still chanting her death song as they rode away.
18
Judge Garrison read the signed statement from Smith.
“Will that hold up in a court of law, Judge?” Smoke asked.
“It will in my court,” the judge said with a smile. “Besides, both you and Deputy Dagonne heard one man confess. Don’t worry, Smoke. Just remember the name of the town the jury is going to be picked from.”
Both men shared a laugh at that. Smoke said, “Any further word about Max Huggins’s background?”
“Yes, but unfortunately, we can’t use any of it. Some of the parties involved are still too frightened to testify. Others have moved away or died. While the authorities east of here know Max is guilty, they can’t prove it.”
Smoke thought about that for a moment. “But Max doesn’t have to know that, Judge.”
The judge looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled. “Of course, you’re quite right.”
“Let me think about how we can use that information, Judge. We’ve got Max bumping from side to side now, let’s see if we can keep him that way.”
“Good idea. I have trial scheduled to start Thursday for those who tried to shoot up the town. I want extra security, Smoke.”
“You’ve got it, Judge. How about Melvin Malone’s case?”
“His is the first one I try. This is . . . unusual for a judge, Smoke. But I want to ask your opinion. I can put him in jail. I can put him to doing community work ... public service work it’s now being called. But putting him to work cleaning the streets is only going to anger him further. Jail? Probably do the same thing. Or I can fine him. What do you think?”
Smoke rolled a cigarette and lit up. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders. “The boy wants to kill me so bad now it’s like a fire inside him....”
“Is he that good?” the judge interrupted.
“I doubt it. He makes the mistake that so many would-be gunhandlers make: He hurried his first shot. I was born blessed with excellent eye and hand coordination, Judge. I was born ambidextrous.” He smiled. “Sally taught me that word, by the way. The speed came with years of practice. I still practice. But I think the thing that keeps me alive—or has kept me alive all these years—is that I’m not afraid when the moment comes. I’m confident without being overly so. As to your original question . . . fine him and let him walk for all I care.”
The judge nodded. “It might buy us more time, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. Kill Melvin now, and Red is very likely to blow wide open. The town is growing stronger every day. In another two weeks, it would take an army to overrun it.”
“That’s correct. And we owe it all to you.”
Smoke waved that away. “I just propped you people up, that’s all. Gave you all a little talking to and jerked you around and around. You all did the rest.”
The judge grinned and rubbed the side of his face. “I never thought I’d see the day when I appreciated a slapping around, but I do, boy, I do.”
“See you around, Judge.”
Smoke stepped out of the judge’s chambers and walked the streets of town. People waved and called his name as he passed. No doubt about it, Smoke thought. These folks are going to fight for their town. And they’re probably going to have it to do ... very soon.
He walked back to the jail and stepped inside. Murtaugh started cussing him as soon as he heard the jingle of Smoke’s spurs. “You’ll never hold me in this cracker box, Jensen. Soon as I can get my hands on a gun, you’re dead, hotshot. You’re dead, and that’s a promise.”
Smoke did not reply.
“I know a lot of things you don’t, Jensen,” Murtaugh kept flapping his mouth. “A whole lot of things.”
Smoke waited.
Murtaugh laughed from his cell. “Have your trials, Jensen. Let that lard-butted judge bang his gavel and hand down his pronouncements. It ain’t gonna make a bit of difference in the long run.”
Murtaugh lay down on his bunk and shut his mouth.
Smoke got up and closed the door to the cell block.
“Have the others had anything to say?” he asked Sal.
“They’ve all been boastin’ about us not keepin’ them for very long. I been doin’ some thinkin’ about that. I think someone’s gonna spring them after they’ve been sentenced.”
“From the jail, you think?” Smoke asked.
Sal shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d guess so. Max or Red ain’t gonna take a chance of bustin’ them away from the prison wagon when they come to haul them off to the territorial prison. That’d bring too much heat on Max, and he don’t want that. So, yeah. I’d say they’ll make their try just after these hard cases are sentenced.”
“We have until Thursday to make some plans. The judge has requested extra security, so he thinks something is in the works, too.”
Pete Akins hitched at his gunbelt. “Max could have at least seventy-five men ready to ride in ten minutes. He could pull fifty more in here in two ... three days. The folks in this town are good people, and I mean that; I never did none of them no harm and they know it. They’ve accepted me. But they ain’t gunhands, Smoke. If you know what I mean.”
Smoke knew what he meant. Most of the men were good shots with a rifle. But few of them had ever killed a man close up. They had fought in the war; but that was, for the most part, a very impersonal thing.
Smoke tossed the question out, “How many men does Red Malone have on the payroll?”
“Thirty,” Jim answered it. “He pays them all fightin’ wages. And there ain’t no backup in none of them. They ride for the brand and that’s it.”
“So we’re conceivably looking at anywhere from a hundred to a hundred and fifty men.”
“Or more,” Pete added.
Smoke paced the office in silence, deep in thought. Finally, he stopped and faced his deputies. “He’s got to try to destroy the town. That’s his only option. Killing me alone won’t stop the movement now. He can’t let Sally’s people start up this proposed bank. That would bring the state and, in some cases, the federal government into it ... if anything were to happen to it.”
“Maybe there’s another way to look at that, Smoke,” Sal pointed out. “Maybe Max wants the bank to start up. Rob the bank, destroy the town, and haul his ashes out of the area and start up somewheres else. You can bet that he has someone in this town feedin’ him information.”
“Who?” Jim asked.
Sal shook his head. “That I don’t know. It could be anybody. The swamper over at the saloon. The bartender, a store clerk ... anybody who’s hard up for money.”
“Hell, that could be any one of a hundred people,” Pete said. “Lemme tell you about Max. He’s sneaky. He has one ear to the ground all the time. He hears about
somebody seein’ somebody else’s wife, he holds that over their head. He finds out about somebody bein’ wanted, say, back in Ohio, he uses that for leverage. Max can be smooth. He might have loaned someone in this town money when he first come here. Money’s tight right now. Maybe they couldn’t repay him like they said they would. Man, he could have half-a-dozen people in this town feedin’ him information.”
Smoke turned and looked out the window. It might be Jerry at the saddle shop. Lucy at the hotel. The boy down at the stable. One of the farmers scattered around this end of the county. One of Joe Walsh’s hands. Then it came to Smoke; but he kept his suspicions to himself, hoping they would not prove true.
He left the office and walked over to the hotel. He sat with Sally for a long time in their suite, talking, exchanging ideas. At first she tought his suspicions to be perfectly horrible. Then, gradually, she began to agree. When Smoke left, both he and Sally wore long faces.
Smoke walked the streets, looking hard into the face of every man and women he passed. Had to be, he thought. I didn’t see it at first because I wasn’t looking for it. But as he spoke and waved to another citizen, heading out of town, the family resemblance was just too strong to ignore.
There it was, staring him right in the face and saying good morning to him.
“You have to be joking!” Judge Garrison said, recoiling back in his chair.
“No. I’m ninety-nine percent certain. It has to be, Judge. Look at the person.”
The judge drummed his fingertips on his desk. He shook his head and sighed. “Now that you mention it, I can see it. My God. I would have never put it together. It was all a sham on this person’s part.”
“It had to be, Judge. Looking back, it all went down too smoothly, with no arguments.”
“And you propose to do what about it at this time?”
“I don’t know. From all I’ve learned by association, this individual does not appear to be a bad person. Rather likable, actually. Let’s just sit on this for the time being, Judge. See what develops.”
“Just between us?”
“You, me, and Sally are the only three in town who know or who suspect.”
War of the Mountain Man Page 16