Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Louis frowned at the rather skimpy selections on the menu, sighed, and decided to order a steak. The others did the same.

  “Sorry we don’t have no buffalo here for you range-riders,” a man blurted from the table next to them. His friend laughed, and the women with them, hennaed and painted up and half drunk, also thought fat boy’s comments to be hysterically amusing.

  Louis ignored the man, as did Smoke and York. “A drink before ordering, gentlemen?” a waiter magically appeared.

  “I’m sure they’ll want rye, George,” the fat boy blurted. “That’s what I read that all cowboys drink. Before they take their semi-yearly bath, that is.”

  His table erupted with laughter.

  “I could move you to another table, gentlemen,” the waiter suggested. “That”—he cut his eyes to the man seated with fat boy and the woman—“is Bull Everton.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to us?” Smoke asked.

  “He’s quite the bully,” the waiter whispered, leaning close. “He’s never been whipped.”

  “That he’s admitted,” Louis commented dryly. “If he can’t fight any better than he can choose women, he must have never fought a man.”

  Smoke and York both laughed at that.

  “We’ll have Scotch,” Louis ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” The waiter was glad to get away from the scene of what he presumed would soon be disaster for the western men.

  “You take them damn guns off,” the voice rumbled to the men, “and I’ll show you what a real man can do.”

  Smoke lifted his eyes to the source of the voice. Bull Everton. He surveyed the man. Even sitting, Smoke could see that the man was massive, with heavy shoulders and huge wrists and hands. But that old wildness sprang up within Smoke. Smoke had never liked a bully. He smiled at the scowling hulk.

  “I’ll take them off anytime you’re ready, donkey-face,” he threw down the challenge and insult.

  Bull stood up and he was big. “How about right now, cowboy? Outside.”

  “Suits me, tub-butt.” Smoke stood up and unbuckled and utied, handing his guns to a waiter.

  The waiter looked as though he’d just been handed a pair of rattlesnakes.

  “Where is this brief contest to take place?” Louis asked Bull.

  “Brief, is right,” Bull laughed. “Out back of the hotel will do.”

  “After you,” Smoke told him.

  When the back door closed and Bull turned around, Smoke hit him flush in the mouth with a hard right and followed that with a vicious left to the wind. Before Bull could gather his senses, Smoke had hit him two more times, once to the nose and another hook to the body.

  With blood dripping from his lips and nose, Bull hollered and charged. Smoke tripped him and hit him once on the way down, then kicked him in the stomach while he was down.

  Smoke was only dimly aware of the small crowd that had gathered, several of the spectators dressed in the blue uniform of police officers. He did not hear one of the cops say to Louis, “I’ve been waiting to see Everton get his due for a long time, boys. Don’t worry. There will be no interference from us.”

  Smoke backed up and allowed Bull to crawl to his feet. There was a light of fury and panic in the man’s eyes.

  Bull lifted his hands in the classic boxer’s stance: left fist held almost straight out, right fist close to his jaw.

  Smoke whirled and kicked the bully on his knee. Bull screamed in pain and Smoke hit him a combination of blows, to the belly, the face, the kidneys. Smoke trip-hammered his fists, brutalizing the bigger man, knocking him down, hauling him back up, and knocking him down again.

  Bull grabbed Smoke’s knees and brought him down to the dirt of the alley. Pulling one leg free, Smoke savagely kicked the bully in the face. Teeth flew, glistening in the night.

  Smoke pulled Bull to his feet and leaned him up against the rear wall, then went to work on the man’s belly and sides. Only after he had felt and heard several ribs break did he let the man fall unconscious to the ground.

  “Drag Bull to the paddy wagon, boys,” the cop in charge ordered. “We’ll take him to the hospital. I can tell by looking that his jaw is broken, and I’ll wager half a dozen ribs are broken as well.” He looked at Smoke. “You don’t even look angry, young man.”

  “I’m not,” Smoke told him.

  “Lord suffer us all!” the officer said. “What would you have done had you been angry?”

  “Killed him.”

  “I’d not like to get on the wrong side of the road with you, young man. But I would like to know your name.”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  The crowd gasped and the cop smiled grimly. “Are you as good with your guns as you are with your dukes, me boy?”

  “Better.”

  Louis handed Smoke a towel and held his coat while his friend wiped his face and hands. York had stood to one side, his coat brushed back, freeing the butts of his. 44s.

  And the cops had noticed that, too.

  The cop looked at all three of the men. “You boys are here for a reason. I’m not asking why, for you’re officers of the law, and federal officers at that. But I’d not like to see any trouble in this town.”

  “There won’t be,” Smoke said, raising up from a rain barrel where he had washed his face and hands. “We’ll be leaving at first light.”

  “You wouldn’t mind if I stopped by the stable to see you off, would you now?”

  “Not a bit,” Smoke said, smiling.

  The waiter stuck his head out the back door. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve freshened your drinks. The management has instructed me to tell you that your dinners are on the house this evening.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Smoke told him. “I assure you, we have ample funds.”

  The waiter smiled. “Gentlemen, Bull Everton will not be returning to this establishment for quite some time, thanks to you. And,” he grinned hugely, “if it isn’t worth a free meal to get rid of a big pain in the ass, nothing is!”

  19

  The men were in the saddle and moving out before first light; they would take their breakfast at the first inn they came to once outside of Springfield. It was cold in the darkness before dawn, with more than a hint of fall in the air, and it was going to be a beautiful day for traveling.

  The road followed the Connecticut River. The men stayed on the east side of the river, knowing they would have to veer off toward the northeast once inside New Hampshire.

  All were taken in by the beauty of the state. Although the leaves were turning as fall approached, the lushness of nature was a beautiful thing to see. As they traveled, the road was bordered by red spruce, red oak, white pine, sugar maple, yellow birch, and white birch.

  “It’s shore purty,” York observed, his eyes taking in the stone fences that surrounded the neat fields and farms. “I can’t rightly describe the way I feel about this place. It’s, well—” He paused and shook his head.

  “Civilized,” Louis finished it.

  “I reckon that’s it, Louis. The only gun I’ve seen all day is the ones we’re totin’. Gives me sort of a funny feelin’.”

  “Bear in mind,” Louis sobered them all, “that all that will change with the arrival of Davidson and his thugs.”

  By mid-afternoon, the schools out for the day, boys and girls began to appear by the fences and roadways, staring in mute fascination as the cowboys rode slowly by. Smoke and Louis and York all smiled and waved at the young people, and just to give the kids something to talk about and remember, they swept back their jackets, exposing the butts of their guns for the kids’ wide eyes.

  And the children loved it.

  They could have easily made the distance to Keene by nightfall but decided to break it off at the inn on the New Hampshire/Massachusetts line. The innkeeper was a bit startled as the three jingled into his establishment.

  “Innkeeper,” Louis said, “rooms for three, if you please. And we’ll stable our own horses.”
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  “Yes . . . sir,” the man said. “Right around back. You’ll see the corn bin.”

  “And warn people to stay away from our horses,” Smoke told him. “Anybody gets into Drifter’s stall he’ll kill them.”

  “Sir!”

  “That’s what he did to the last man who owned him.”

  “Yes, sir! I will so advise any locals.”

  The man and his wife and the girls who worked in the tavern and dining room were having a hard time keeping their eyes off the twin guns belted around each man’s lean waist.

  “We’ll freshen up a bit and then come down for a drink at the bar,” Louis told the man and woman.

  Louis, York, and Smoke waited.

  The man and woman and hired help contined to stare at the three tall men. No one seemed able to move.

  Louis rapped gently on the desk. “The keys, please?”

  The man came alive. “Oh! Yes! Here you are, gentlemen.”

  Smoke smiled at the lady behind the desk. “We don’t bite, ma’am. I promise you we don’t.”

  His smile broke the barriers between old, settled, and established codes and those who came from the freewheeling western part of the nation. She returned his smile and glanced down at the register.

  “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Jensen! Smoke Jensen?”

  And once more, pandemonium reigned.

  * * *

  The trio crossed into New Hampshire at first light, having paid their bill and slipped out quietly before dawn.

  York was dressed in jeans, a red and white checkered shirt, and a leather waist-length jacket. Louis dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt with black string tie, highly polished black boots, and a white duster over his clothing to keep away the dust. Smoke was dressed in dark jeans, a black shirt, a red bandana, and his beaded buckskin jacket. All wore western hats. Only York and Smoke’s big bowie knives could be seen; Louis’s duster covered his own knife.

  About ten miles inside New Hampshire, they picked up the Ashuelot River and followed that toward Keene. Some fifteen miles later, the outskirts of the town came into view.

  The men reined up, dismounted, and knocked the dust from their clothing. Louis, loving every minute of it, removed his linen duster and tied it behind his saddle. A farmer came rattling along in a wagon, stopped, and sat his seat, staring at the heavily armed trio.

  “The Reynolds house,” Smoke said, walking to the man. “How do we find it?”

  The man sat his wagon seat and stared, openmouthed.

  “Sir?” Smoke asked. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s really you,” the farmer said, awe in his voice. “I been readin’ ’bout you for years. Knew you by your picture.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad to meet you, too. Could you direct us to the Reynolds house?”

  “Oh . . . sure! That’s easy. Cross the bridge and go three blocks. Turn right. Two blocks down they’s a big white two-story house on the corner. You can’t miss it. Wait’ll I tell my wife I seen Smoke Jensen!” He clucked to his team and rattled on.

  “What day is this?” York asked. “I’m havin’ the damndest time keepin’ track of things.”

  “Saturday,” Louis told them. “Smoke, do we inform the local authorities as to why we are here?”

  “I think not. If we did that, they’d want to handle it the legal way. With trials and lawyers and the such. We’d be tied up here for months. So let’s keep it close to the vest and wait until Davidson makes his play. Then we’ll handle it our way.”

  “Sounds good to me,” York said. He swung into the saddle.

  Smoke and Louis mounted up.

  They cantered across the wooden bridge, three big men riding big western horses. They slowed to a walk on the other side of the street. People began coming out of houses to stand and stare at the men as they rode slowly by. Little children stood openmouthed; for all, it was the first time they had ever seen a real western cowboy, much less three real gunslingers like they’d been reading about in the penny dreadfuls and the tabloids.

  Louis tipped his hat to a group of ladies, and they simpered and giggled and twirled their parasols and batted their eyes.

  A little boy spotted them as they turned the street corner, and he took off like the hounds of hell were nipping at his feet.

  “Aunt Sally! Aunt Sally!” he hollered. “They’re here, Aunt Sally!”

  He ran up the steps of the huge house and darted inside.

  The front porch filled with people, all staring at the three horsemen walking their mounts slowly up the street.

  “Your relatives, Smoke,” Louis said. “Looks like quite a gathering.”

  “I am not looking forward to this, Louis,” Smoke admitted. “I just want to get this over with, see Davidson and his bunch dead in the streets, and take Sally and the babies and get the hell back to the Sugarloaf.”

  “You’ll survive it,” the gambler said. “I assure you, my friend. But I feel it will be somewhat trying for the lot of us.”

  And then Sally stepped out onto the porch to join her family. Smoke felt he had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. She stood by an older man that Smoke guessed was her father.

  The entire neighborhood had left their houses and were standing in their front yards, gawking at the gunslingers.

  “Smoke Jensen!” a teenager said, the words reaching Smoke. “He’s killed a thousand men with those guns. Bet he took that coat off an Indian after he killed him.”

  Smoke grimaced and cut his eyes at Louis. The gambler said, “I feel awed to be in the presence of someone so famous.” Then he smiled. “A thousand men, eh? My how your reputation has grown in such a short time.”

  Smoke shook his head and could not help but smile.

  John Reynolds said, “That horse he’s riding looks like it came straight out of the pits of hell!”

  “That’s Drifter,” Sally told him. “He’s a killer horse. Killed the last man who tried to own him.”

  John looked at his daughter. “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yes. But he’s really quite gentle once he gets to know you. I was baking pies one afternoon and he stuck his head into the kitchen and ate a whole pie before I realized it. I picked up a broom and spanked him.”

  “You . . . spanked him,” John managed to say. He muttered under his breath and Sally laughed at his expression.

  The riders turned and reined up, dismounting at the hitchrail. Sally stepped off the porch and walked toward the picket fence, a smile on her lips.

  Smoke stood by the gate and stared at her, not trusting his voice to speak.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Sally said.

  “I’ve been missing your cooking.”

  He opened the gate.

  Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Is that all you’ve been missing?” She spoke low, so her words reached only his ears.

  Smoke stepped through the open gate, his spurs jingling. He stopped a few feet from her. “Well, let’s see. I reckon I might have missed you just a tad.”

  And then she was in his arms, loving the strong feel of him. Her tears wet his face as she lifted her lips to his.

  York lifted his hat and let out a war whoop.

  Walter Reynolds swallowed his snuff.

  20

  “Should you be out of bed this soon?” Smoke asked his wife.

  “Oh, the doctors tried to get me to stay in bed much longer, but since I didn’t have the time to get to the city to have the babies, and they came so easily, I left the bed much earlier than most, I imagine.”

  “I keep forgetting how tough you are.” Smoke smiled across the twin cradles at her.

  “Have you thought about names, Smoke?”

  “Uh . . . no, I really haven’t. I figured you’d have them named by now.”

  “I have thought of a couple.”

  “Oh?”

  “How about Louis Arthur and Denise Nicole?”

  Louis for Louis Longmont. Arthur for Old Preacher. And Nicole for Smoke’s fi
rst wife, who was murdered by outlaws, and their baby son, Arthur, who was also killed. Denise was an old family name on the Reynolds side.

  “You don’t object to naming the girl after Nicole?”

  “No,” Sally said with a smile. “You know I don’t.”

  “Louis will be pleased.”

  “I thought so.”

  Smoke looked at the sleeping babies. “Are they ever going to wake up?”

  She laughed softly. “Don’t worry. You’ll know when they wake. Come on. Let’s go back and join the rest of the family.”

  Smoke looked around for Louis and York. John caught his eye. “I tried to get them to stay. I insisted, told them we had plenty of room. But Mr. Longmont said he felt it would be best if they stayed at the local hotel. Did we offend them, Son?”

  Smoke shook his head as the family gathered around. “No. We’re here on some business as well as to get Sally. It would be best if we split up. I’ll explain.”

  John looked relieved. “I was so afraid we had somehow inadvertently offended Mr. Longmont.”

  John Reynolds stared at Smoke as his son-in-law laughed out loud. “Hell, John. Louis just wanted to find a good poker game, that’s all!”

  * * *

  It was after lunch, and the family was sitting on the front porch. Smoke had not removed his guns and had no intention of doing so.

  And it was not just the young people who stared at him with a sort of morbid fascination.

  “Tell me about Dead River,” Sally spoke. She glanced at her nieces and nephews. “You, scoot! There’ll be a lot of times to talk to your Uncle Smoke.”

  The kids reluctantly left the porch.

  Smoke shaped and rolled and licked and lit. He leaned back in his chair and propped his boots up on the porch railing. “Got kind of antsy there for the last day or two before we opened the dance.”

  “You went to a dance?” Betsy asked.

  Smoke cut his eyes. “Opening the dance means I started the lead flying, Betsy.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes were wide.

  “You mean as soon as you told the hooligans to surrender, they opened fire?” Jordan inquired.

  Smoke cut his eyes to him. “No,” he drawled. “It means that me and York come in the back way of the saloon, hauled iron, and put about half a dozen of them on the floor before the others knew what was happening.” It wasn’t really accurate, but big deal.