Smoke flipped his hat onto a rack next to the door and sat at Louis’s table, narrowing his eyes at what was before him on his plate. “Good morning, Louis.” He pointed at the eggs covered with what appeared to be curdled buttermilk. “Just what is that you are fixing to eat?”
“It is called eggs Benedict, and it is truly magnifique,” said Louis, kissing his fingertips in the French fashion.
Smoke pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, Louis. If your fancy French chef, André, can remember how to make some bacon and plain old hen eggs and fried taters, I’d ’preciate it.”
“Oh Smoke,” Louis looked disappointed. “At least try these eggs Benedict. They are to die for!”
“I’d just as soon live, if you don’t mind. Just have him pour a little sweet cream in with the eggs and scramble ’em up. That’ll do me just fine.”
“Okay then, how about some café au lait?”
“If that’s coffee, I’ll have about a gallon.”
Louis’s eyebrows raised. “Late night last night?”
André appeared with a large silver service coffeepot and a china cup and saucer, which he placed in front of Smoke. “Good morning, Mr. Smoke, sir. May I serve you some eggs Benedict?”
Louis relayed Smoke’s order, and André went away with a pained look on his face.
Smoke took a drink of his coffee, making sure his little finger was out and that Louis saw it. Then he pulled his makin’s out and said, “You mind?”
Louis waved a dismissive hand, “No, of course not. What is morning coffee without tobacco?”
After Smoke had his cigarette going and had taken another sip of coffee, he said, “Had a little excitement up at Sugarloaf last night.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Seems four bushwhackers thought they was good enough to take on Sally and the hands. Had ’em pinned down for a while until I showed up.”
Around a mouthful of food, Louis said, “All dead, I presume?”
Smoke looked startled. “Of course, what’d you expect?”
“Nothing less, my friend. Are you aware of the reasoning behind the cowardly attack?”
Smoke filled him in on what he had heard and who he suspected was behind the various attacks on him recently, and of his plan to send Sally to New Hampshire to see her folks.
“And I’d like you to spread the word to the patrons of your establishment that I’ve gone to the high country for a visit with some old mountain man friends up there.”
“Certainly, Smoke, but wouldn’t you like another pair of Colts to help you when Sundance finally comes for you? Knowing his character, or complete lack thereof, as we both do, I’m certain he’s going to come with lots of company.”
Smoke shook his head and put out the cigarette as André served his breakfast. “No thanks, Louis. I ’preciate the offer, but the more men he brings up into my country, the worse off he’ll be. Easier to sow confusion and doubt when there’s a crowd.”
Louis put down his knife and fork and pulled a huge, black cigar out of his vest pocket. He lit it and blew a large, blue cloud of cigar smoke at the ceiling. “Yes, I understand your strategy. Still, someone to watch your back might not be inappropriate.”
Smoke grinned. “Things must be awfully slow around here. You sound bored to me, Louis.”
“Well, now that you mention it, there has been a notable lack of excitement in Big Rock lately. I’m afraid that word has gotten out that this is Smoke Jensen’s town and the rowdier element bypasses us for more suitable entertainment.” He took another pull on the stogie, “Hell, I may have to move to a livelier town before dry rot sets in. I haven’t drawn my gun in anger in several months. I’m afraid I’m getting out of practice.”
Before Smoke could answer, there came the sound of a gunshot from the direction of the Emporium, and Smoke and Louis bolted for the door together.
Sally was standing in front of the store, holding her short-barrelled .44 in front of her. One sleeve of her shirt was torn, a man lay doubled over the hitching post, blood dripping from a hole between his eyes and out of the enormous gap in the back of his head, and four other men were standing arrayed around her, hands near their guns.
Smoke, Louis, and Sheriff Monte Carson, carrying a sawed-off shotgun, arrived at the same time. Smoke went to stand beside Sally, fire in his eyes. “What happened, Sally?”
She inclined her head toward the dead man. “This . . . fellow,” she spat with distaste, “saw me carrying some packages out of the Emporium and thought if he offered to help, that gave him other rights, too.”
One of the saddlebums pointed his finger at Sally and shouted, “She kilt our friend. He wasn’t doin’ nothin’, jest bein’ friendly, that’s all.”
The man next to him joined in. “Yeah, now she’s gonna get a whuppin’.”
Smoke’s smile didn’t include his eyes. “Oh? And just which one of you thinks he’s man enough to do it?”
The biggest one of the four, a man well over six and a half feet tall and weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, hitched his thumb in his belt and stepped forward. “I figure I’m man enough. I see you’re wearing a mighty fancy shootin’ rig, but I’m wondering how good you are with your fists?”
Smoke looked at Sally. “Did any of these men bother you?”
She shook her head. “No, but the tall one there was encouraging the other one to show me what a real man is like. As if he knew!” She looked at the big man and spat in his face.
He sleeved the saliva off and backhanded Sally, almost knocking her down. He raised his hands when suddenly he was looking down the barrels of Smoke’s and Louis’s Colts and Monte’s shotgun with both hammers eared back. “Hey wait a minute,” he cried. “She started it.”
Smoke bolstered his pistol and put his hand on top of Louis’s gun, pushing it down. “Hold on, Louis, Monte. Killing this big, brave man who hits women is too fast and too painless for him. Let me show him what happens to men who abuse women in this country.”
He took his gun belt off and handed it to Louis, first removing his padded, black gloves and putting them on. He stepped into the street and waved the man toward him.
The big fellow spit in his hands and rubbed them together. “What rules you want to fight by?” he asked.
Smoke raised his eyebrows. “Rules? I promise to quit hitting you after you’re dead. That’s the only rule I fight by.”
The man grinned, showing yellow, rotten teeth. “Good. My kinda fight.” He showed no finesse, just put his hands up and walked toward Smoke, evidently counting on his size to overpower the shorter man. He hadn’t noted the size of Smoke’s biceps, as big around as most men’s necks, or his forearms, steel-hard from years of labor in the mountain woods.
When he was within arm’s reach, he took a big roundhouse swing that would have taken Smoke’s head off if it had connected. Instead, Smoke ducked under the blow and swung a straight punch with all of his weight behind it into the cowboy’s exposed right kidney.
Everyone present could hear the snap of the lower two ribs on that side, even over the man’s grunt of pain. As he doubled over, Smoke stepped in close and clipped him behind the right ear with a left cross, spinning the giant around with his back to Smoke.
When he straightened up and turned around, he was holding a knife he had pulled from his boot. Blood was running down the right side of his face from his ear, and he was canted over to the side, cradling his broken ribs with his arm. He extended his knife hand and rushed at Smoke, screaming incoherently.
Smoke leaned to the side as he rushed past and planted the toe of his boot in the man’s ample paunch, burying it all the way to the spurs. The man bent over, heaving his breakfast onto the street. Smoke grabbed a handful of hair in one hand and his chin in the other, and twisted. The bully’s neck broke with a loud snap like dry wood and he fell dead on his face in the dirt.
Smoke looked at the cowboy’s friends. “Only a man with a death wish brings a knife to a fight.
Now you gents have two choices. You can apologize to the lady and ride out of town, or I can put my guns on and you can spend eternity eating dirt in Boot Hill over there.”
With downcast eyes, the cowboys all told Sally they were sorry before they mounted their horses and began to ride down the street. Smoke went over to the horse trough and splashed water on his face. He turned to get his pistols from Louis and was startled to see Louis draw his Colt in a blur and fire right over Smoke’s head.
He whirled. One of cowboys had turned his horse around and was riding back toward Smoke with a pistol in his hand. He was blown out of the saddle by Louis’s shot. The snap shot had taken the man in the throat and almost decapitated him. The other two wasted no time hightailing it out of town.
Smoke turned to Louis with upraised eyebrows. “I thought you were out of practice, old friend.”
Louis frowned. “I am. I was aiming between his eyes.”
Smoke put his arm around his shoulders. “No problem, he was just taller than you remembered, that’s all.”
Smoke helped Sally up into the buckboard and they rode out of Big Rock with a wave.
Louis said to Monte Carson, “Monte, would you care to join me for a drink?”
Monte sleeved the sweat off his forehead and shouldered his shotgun. “Sure would, Louis. All this excitement has given me a powerful dry I need to wet.”
Louis looked after the couple leaving town. “Sheriff, you ever seen anyone with hands as fast as Smoke’s?”
Monte winked. “Nope. He’s faster than a hound dog goin’ after a bone, all right. Main difference is, though, that ole mountain dog is all bite and no bark!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sundance stood on a small knoll near the grove of cottonwoods he had designated as a meeting place for his lieutenants and their men. They arrived an hour before and were now drinking coffee by the gallon, most of them trying without much success to sober up and get rid of their hangovers.
El Gato brought twelve men with him, all pistoleros, with no Anglos among them. He was most proud of Carlito Suarez, a man he called perro muerte, the hound of death. Suarez, according to El Gato, had killed so many men he could not keep track of them on his fingers and toes. He carried two pistols, each facing butt forward, and the usual crossed bandoliers holding spare cartridges, and had an ancient ’73 Winchester slung over his shoulder that looked as if it had seen better days. He was said to be able to knock the eye out of an eagle in flight with the rifle. We’ll see, thought Sundance, with some skepticism. The remainder of El Gato’s men were the usual assortment of scruffy looking Mexican bandido types. Heavy moustaches that drooped low, uncut, scraggly hair and beards, and a smell of onions and unwashed flesh that made Sundance’s nose curl when they came upwind of him.
Toothpick brought ten men with him. They were a mixed bunch, mostly Anglos with a few Mexicans thrown in. They were all hardcases, and Sundance recognized several faces from Wanted posters he had seen around towns in south Texas. One-Eye Jordan, wearing a patch over his left eye, was wanted for robbery, rape, and murder in at least four towns that Sundance knew of. He wore only one gun, but was reputed to be as quick as a rattlesnake with it, and just as likely as the dreaded serpent to strike without provocation. It was said he lost his eye in a fight, gouged out by his opponent’s thumb. Jordan, according to local legend, had bitten the man’s thumb off and swallowed it before killing him.
Another of Toothpick’s gang was Curly Bill Cartwright. This angelic-faced kid was no more than eighteen years old, and looked only fourteen. He was, however, a stone-cold killer whose pretty face was inhabited by eyes as dead as dirt, and the same color. He was reputed to kill without mercy and could use a knife as well as a pistol.
One of his Mexicans was called Chiva, which Sundance didn’t understand. The word chiva was like cabrón, one of the worst insults you could give a Mexican. He later learned it meant not only cuckold, but also scurrilous outlaw, or thoroughly bad hombre. Chiva was all of that. He had a scar from ear to ear, and was said to have choked to death with his bare hands the man who gave it to him, after the gent had cut his throat. He never smiled and rarely talked, just sat constantly worrying his knife blade on an old whetstone. Sundance could see why he and Toothpick had teamed up together.
Lightning Jack Warner brought fourteen men, all Anglos and all sporting distinctly Southern accents. Several still wore parts of Confederate Army uniforms and smelled as if they hadn’t bathed or washed their clothes since the end of the war. These men eyed the Mexicans nervously and acted as if they would rather fight them than make some money. One of his men, simply called Bull, was one of the biggest, widest men Sundance had ever seen. He made even El Gato seem small. He rode a horse that must have been seventeen hands and it looked like a pony between his legs. In spite of his size, he had a high, almost girlish voice with a bit of a lisp. God help the man, or men, who mentioned it, however. His hands were so big it was hard for him to handle a six-gun; fingers wouldn’t fit in the trigger guard. He carried a pair of twelve-gauge shotguns cut down to fourteen inches long. He wore a homemade rig for his converted shotguns with two holsters fitted to a belt like scabbards for pistols. It was said that he was as fast with his scatterguns as most men with Colts. He made his own loads for the shells out of wire, glass, and cut-off heads of horseshoe nails. His effective range was only about twenty yards, but it was a rare man who could hit the side of a barn with a Colt at a greater distance. His friends bragged that anything Bull shot at he hit, and anything Bull hit, he killed. He was known to have been wounded eleven times, three in one battle, and had never gone down from his injuries. Either too mean, or too stupid to die, thought Sundance.
Sundance stood on his knoll and whistled to get the gunmen’s attention. Several, those with hangovers of larger than average proportions, winced and held their heads, or just lay on the ground with their eyes shut. “Compadres and partners. I don’t know what the men who brought you here told you, but if you ride with me, you’ll either become rich, or you’ll die.”
A few of the men stopped cleaning their guns or drinking their coffee and looked up with puzzled expressions.
Sundance paced as he spoke, waving his arms with excitement. “Together, we can form the most feared gang the West has ever seen. We can rob and pillage and steal anything we want. We can go wherever we want, and no town, no marshal, no sheriff can stand against us. For every man we lose in battle, we’ll have two more who want to join the Sundance Morgan gang. We’ll move fast and strike hard. No one will be safe and nobody will know where we’re going to hit next.”
One of the Southerners stood and shouted, “Okay, now we know how we’ll die. Just how will we get rich?”
Sundance laughed. “A man after my own heart. We’ll split the proceeds of every job equally among us. Even though I will plan the jobs and our raids. I will take no more than anyone else. We are all equals where money is concerned.” He paused, and walked a few steps in silence before turning back to the group. “On this there can be no disagreement, however. I’ll be boss and I’ll call the shots—where we go, who we hit, and when we leave camp. Are there any questions about that?”
One of the pistoleros who had come into camp with El Gato came to his feet. He had an Army Colt in his hand and was idly spinning the cylinder. “I got a question. Why should we, los pistoleros, take orders from un gabacho?”
Sundance smiled and cocked his head. “Excuse me,” he said with sarcasm, “but what does gabacho mean?”
The Mexican grinned insolently. “Is not so nice word for gringo, my friend.”
Without hesitation, Sundance drew and fired in an instant, his bullet taking the man in the forehead and blowing brains and blood all over his friends behind him. The gunman stood there for a moment with a surprised look on what was left of his face, before he toppled into the dust.
Sundance aimed his Colt in the air. “What do you call a dead Mexican?” he shouted. When no one moved, he yelled, “The same th
ing you call a dead American. A corpse!” He shook his head and spread his arms to include all of the men gathered under the cottonwood trees. “We are all compadres here, we are all compañeros, we are all partners. There is no race or religion in this gang. We will fight together, whore together, and live or die together.” His expression turned fierce. “Anyone who can’t live with that can leave now, or be killed later. It’s your choice.”
Most of the group cheered and waved their bandannas in the air or fired off their pistols. A few of Lightning Jack’s Southerners got on their mounts and rode off silently, and a couple of Mexicans took their horses and went toward the Rio Bravo just beyond the trees. Overall, Sundance thought, he now had a gang of better than thirty of the meanest, lowest, and most deadly men in the state of Texas riding with him.
He aimed his pistol at a grove of trees nearby. “Over there, I’ve two cases of tequila and two cases of whiskey. What say we have a few drinks to settle our partnership and help cut the trail dust?”
A great shout of joy erupted and the men all scrambled to get a bottle, get some shade, and get alkalied.
* * *
It was almost sundown by the time Smoke and Sally made it to a small station on the Rocky Mountain Line railroad tracks that served as the closest point to Sugarloaf where they could board an eastbound train. The station consisted of a small, one-room cabin and loading platform, with a pole to hang a lantern on to signal the engineer to stop.
Smoke lit the lantern, hung it on the pole, and settled back to await the train’s arrival. He built a cigarette and poured himself and Sally a small dollop of whiskey to cut the ever-present dust.
Sally took his cigarette between her fingers and pulled a drag, then took a small sip of liquor. As she exhaled, she looked at him. “I’m going to miss you, Smoke,” she said huskily.
He took her hand. “I’m going to miss you, too, honey.” He smiled, “but I’ll tell you this, the boys are going to miss you almost as much. Cookie just doesn’t know his way around a kitchen nearly as well as you do. They’ll all probably lose weight while you’re gone.”
Vengeance of the Mountain Man Page 7