All four of the men Smoke and Rusty faced were wearing two six guns, low and tied down.
“Most men can’t use but one gun at a time. And some of them can’t use that one very well,” Smoke pointed out as the gunfighter and the cowboy continued their shortening the distance to death.
“And you ...?”
“I’m the exception,” Smoke said without a single note of bragging. He was simply telling the truth.
There was about fifty feet between them when Smoke halted the parade.
“All right, Montana,” Smoke called. “You made your brags back at the cafe. Now let’s see if you’ve got the sand to back it up.”
“Ten thousand on your head, Jensen!” Bob Garner called out. "We’ll live nice on that money."
“You have to collect it first, Gamer,” Smoke tossed that reminder out to him.
Garner’s laugh was full of confidence.
Ten thousand, Smoke mused. Surely it can’t go much higher than that.
But then, after a second’s thought, he changed his mind, realizing that perhaps there was no limit to Jud Vale’s obsessions with being king.
“Ten thousand!” Rusty muttered. “Man, I am choppin’ in-some high cotton, Smoke. Somebody is shore scared of you.”
Smoke did not reply, nor did his eyes leave Montana Slim. It was as he had thought, Slim and Garner were partners and were staying together. Rusty would have to deal with the two bounty hunters—if that’s what they were.
Smoke could hear faint rustlings on the boardwalks behind them. He knew that the crowds were gathering to watch the show. It was a dangerous sport for spectators, and many an onlooker had caught a stray bullet. But entertainment was scarce in western towns; many folks packed picnic lunches and would drive a wagon for a hundred miles, bringing the entire family to make an all-day event out of a public hanging.
“I’m tired of all this jawing, Slim,” Smoke told him. “And I really don’t want a killing. Why don’t you boys just get on your horses and ride out of here?”
There was something unnerving about Smoke, something that shook even a hardened gunfighter like Montana Slim. He was just so damned sure of himself. Maybe he ought to be, Montana admitted silently. He’s put more than a hundred men in the ground and there he stands, lookin’ at me.
But Montana Slim knew he had backed himself into a corner with only two ways out: either walk away victorious, or be propped up in front of the undertaking parlor on a board for all the folks to see.
“And I’m just damn tarred of your mouth, Jensen,” Montana yelled. “Grab iron!” His hands flashed to his guns.
Montana thought he heard Smoke say, “All right, Slim.” Then he felt twin hammer-blows slam into his chest as his knees began to buckle. Out of the corner of his eyes, the light fading fast, he saw Bob Garner run into the old barn. Montana Slim, the veteran and victor of half a hundred gunfights, lifted his hands and looked at them.
They were empty! Jensen had been so fast he hadn’t even grabbed iron. But that was ... impossible! That thought was his last as he pitched forward into the dust, dead.
Rusty had taken his time and placed his shots well. One bounty hunter was down on his belly, his blood staining the dirt from two bullet holes in his belly, and the other so-called gunfighter was holding up his one good arm in surrender; his other arm, his shooting arm, was broken at the elbow and hanging at a very queer angle.
Smoke was off and running between the old barn and another building which looked to be in just as bad a shape as the barn. He quickly reloaded as he ran.
A bullet whammed into a corral post and Smoke dropped to his belly, scooting behind an old watering trough. He caught a glimpse of a red and white checkered shirt and snapped off a shot. He didn’t think he hit Garner, but the slug came close enough to bring a yelp of surprise from the man.
Smoke triggered off five more rounds then holstered that Colt, drawing his left-hand pistol just as Gamer ran briefly into view.
Smoke dusted him from side to side, spinning the man around and holding him there long enough for Smoke to take careful aim and put another slug into the man’schest. Bob Garner went down slowly and didn’t get up.
It was over.
For this go-around anyway.
Smoke reloaded both guns and walked over to where he’d seen Garner fall. The gunny was lying on his back, very close to death.
It was not a pretty sight. Of course, Garner hadn’t been very pretty to start with.
Smoke squatted down beside the man. There was not much life left in him.
And much of what life remained was spent in cussing Smoke.
Smoke waited until the dying man coughed up blood and tried to catch his breath.
“Anybody you want me to write, Bob?”
A funny look came into the gunfighter’s eyes. He shook his head. “Best ... if the wife ... just don’t never see me agin. I ain’t... been much of a husband or ... father.”
“Any money you got you want me to send them?”
“Spent it last ... night on the ... whoors.”
Rusty walked up and stood listening.
“I’ll swap your guns for a buryin’, Bob,” Smoke assured him.
“Right kind ... of you. See you ... boys in Hell!” Bob Garner closed his eyes and died.
Rusty was quiet as they rode out of Malad City that afternoon. The dead gunman had, for the moment, taken the fight out of those remaining in the town. They stood on the boardwalk and watched Smoke and Rusty clear town. Most would continue on toward the Bar V. But there were some, mostly older and wiser, who would elect to seek another trouble spot where they could ply their deadly trade. It was not that they were cowards, far from it. They simply knew Smoke Jensen’s reputation and their own capabilities and limitations.
“Mean right up to the end,” Rusty finally broke his silence.
“What are you talking about?”
“Garner. What makes a man like that, Smoke?”
“Some folks back East and in the cities are claiming it comes from bad rearing.”
“Huh!” Rusty summed up his opinion of that. "I ain’t disputin’ your word, Smoke, but I just don’t believe in that at all. I been on my own for years. And my pa was a mighty mean man. He liked to whup up us boys and girls. Didn’t make no difference to him. My older sister run off when I was just a little shaver. I heard she was doin’ good out in California. My other brother died from a beatin’ Pa give him. Hell, Pa knocked me unconscious with his fists or with a chunk of stovewood more’un once. And I ain’t never stole nothin’ in my life, or rode the hootowl trail or done nothin’ much that was ag’in the law. And nobody could have had a worser home life than me. So them folks that think what you just said don’t know a pot of beans from a pile of cow droppin’s.”
Smoke grinned. “I had to be a man grown just after my thirteenth birthday, working a hardscrabble farm back in Missouri and looking after my sick mother. Wasn’t ever enough food; just enough to keep body and soul together. So I know what you mean. Rusty. And no, I don’t believe those so-called experts either.
“What makes men like Montana Slim and Bob Garner and all the rest be what they are?” He shook his head. “I think they were born to it, Rusty. They could have had all the advantages in the world and they would have turned out bad. A different kind of bad, maybe, but bad just the same.”
“What do you mean, a different kind of bad?”
“Oh, they might have been bankers cheating old ladies or grocers cheating people and being mean-spirited folks. That type of thing.”
Rusty thought about that for a mile or so. “You know, Smoke. You’re right. There sure are a lot of mean-minded and mean-spirited people in this world. Why, I know a few people who was born into money, and come from nice parents. Kind parents. But their kids would steal the pennies off’n a dead man’s eyes.”
“That’s what I mean, Rusty. Born to it. I call it the bad seed theory.”
Rusty settled into the bunkhouse with th
e old men and the kids. Smoke had taken to sleeping in a room out in the barn.
And Doreen stopped batting her eyes at Smoke and seemed to be quite taken with Rusty—much to the relief of Smoke. She got to getting all gussied up and swishing around him until it was embarrassing for all the others around them. Rusty, he just grinned like an egg-suckin’ dog and stood around in sort of a daze.
There had been no trouble from Jud Vale or his men during the time Smoke had been gone.
But gunfighters kept drifting into the area, in groups of twos and threes. Pretty soon, Smoke thought, Jud Vale was going to have his own private army. And he was going to have to make his move pretty quick, for he was paying out a lot of money for all his hired guns to sit around and do nothing. While many of the bounty hunters and hired guns could work cattle, Smoke had a hunch that damn few were going to. Most of them were just downright lazy.
On a bright, sunshiny morning, Smoke lined the boys up and laid it on the line to them, telling them what their parents had said, and leaving the final decision up to the young cowpunchers.
The boys huddled together for a time, and then Jamie stepped out of the group and faced Smoke.
“I allow as to how we’ll stay, Mr. Smoke,” the boy said. “We got to have the money to help out at home. And it ain’t as if we never faced outlaws and the likes of Jud Vale before, ’cause we all have. I figure it like this, and you tell me if it don’t meet with your approval and we’ll work something else out.”
Smoke waited, as did the other adults.
Jamie took a deep breath. “You see, sir, me and Alan and Cecil and two or three of the others, well, we know more about Jud Vale than you do, we think. We know it won’t make no difference to him whether it’s a grown man or a boy—not when it comes to standing in his way when he’s a-goin’ after something he wants. Like this ranch and Miss Doreen. So we went ag’in your orders and each of us stuck a pistol in our saddlebags.”
Smoke sighed. He couldn’t really blame the boys. He would have done the same thing had he been in their position. Smoke had been toting a pistol since he was thirteen. A Navy .36 caliber that had been given him back in ’63 by the as yet unknown Confederate guerrilla fighter name of Jesse James.
“’Way we all figure it, Mr. Smoke, it’s gonna be comin’ down to the nut-cuttin’ right shortly. And it ain’t fair for no one to ask us to ride unarmed when we might catch a bullet at any moment. I reckon that’s all I got to say, Mr. Smoke.”
Smoke towered over the boy, staring down at him. Finally, and with a sigh, Smoke nodded his head. "All right, Jamie. I fear for your lives, but I can’t ask you to disarm yourselves. I been packing a pistol since I was just a boy. But I have to ask you all to show me that you know how to use those guns."
“That’s fair, sir,” Jamie agreed. “When do you want us to do that?”
“Nothing like right now.”
Cheyenne took one group of boys. Rusty took another, and Smoke took the third.
But damned if Smoke was going to have ten-year-olds packing pistols. Any boy under the age of twelve would slay close to the house and work in the yard or in the barn or corral. The boys packing iron would be Jamie, Matthew, Ralph, Leroy, Cecil, Alan, Roily, Pat, and Oscar.
The frail Matthew, thick glasses and all, surprised Smoke. The boy was a born gun hand, the pistol seeming to be a natural extension of his arm. And his aim was deadly true. Even Jamie took a backseat to Matthew. Smoke had held the very strong suspicion that Matt had been secretly practicing his draw and firing for some time. He asked him about it.
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, blushing. “Whenever I could scrape up a few pennies to buy ammo, I been ridin’ out far from the house and workin’ at my draw.”
“It’s a natural talent you have, Matt. But it’s not one your ma and pa will look upon with favor. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I reckon that’s right. But if a feller’s got a knack for something, he ought to polish on it, shouldn’t he?”
Should he? Smoke silently pondered, staring down at the frail boy packing the short-barreled sheriff’s model Peacemaker. Should he? What would I be doing now if I had not discovered and polished my talent for weapons? How many graves have I filled because of my quickness with a gun? And did this boy have enough sand in him to live with a gun by his side and not use it recklessly?
But can I stop him? Should I stop him? This was still the frontier, and it was filled with hard, tough, and often cruel men. Men like Jud Vale and his hired guns.
“Yes, Matt,” Smoke said slowly. “Yes. Conditions being what they are, I guess you should polish it. As long as there are men like Jud Vale around, and with us being miles from the nearest law, I guess you should. But use that gun wisely, boy. If the law can handle it, let them. If you’re pushed into a corner, then it’s all up to you. I reckon that’s the way it’s always been and I suppose that’s the way it’s always going to be.”
“I ain’t smart like no grownup,” Matt said. “But that’s the way I think, too.”
Matt turned, drew, cocked, and fired. All in one smooth quiet motion, the bullet striking true. Smoke experienced a hard push of memory, winging him back in years. Back to when he was a boy, traveling with Preacher. Back to his first real gunfight with white men.
Preacher and the boy, Smoke, had stopped in a rip-roaring mining camp just west of the Needle Mountains. It would soon be named Rico.
They had bought their supplies and were just about to leave when two rough-looking and unshaven men stepped into the combination trading post and barroom.
“Who owns that horse out yonder?” one demanded, trouble plain in his voice. “The one with the SJ brand?”
The boy Smoke laid his purchases on the counter and slowly turned. “I do.”
“Which way’d you ride in from, boy?”
Preacher had slipped to his right, his left hand covering the hammer of his Henry rifle, concealing the click as he thumbed the hammer back.
Smoke’s hands were at his sides; his left hand just inches from his left hand gun. ”Who wants to know—and why?”
No one in the room said a word.
“Don’t sass me, boy!” the bigger and uglier of the two said. “My name’s Pike, and I say you come through my camp yesterday and stole my dust!”
Smoke smiled grimly. “You’re a damn liar!”
Pike grined, an ugly peeling back of the lips, exposing blackened rotting stumps of teeth. His right hand was hovering close to the butt of his pistol. “Why you smart-mouthed little punk. I think I’ll just shoot your damned ears off.”
“Why don’t you try. I’m sure tired of hearing you shoot off your mouth,” Smoke told him, no fear in his voice.
Pike looked confused for a moment. This kid didn’t seem to be at all afraid of him. Odd. Pike was as big and strong as he was ugly. And he had been a loud-mouth bully all his life. People just didn’t talk to him like this kid was doing. “I think I’ll just kill you for that, kid.”
Smoke laughed at him.
Pike and partner reached for their guns.
Four shots thundered in the low-ceilinged room. Four shots so closely spaced they seemed as one thunderous roaring. Dust and bird’s nest droppings fell from the ceiling. Pike and friend were slammed out through the open doorway. One fell off the rough porch, dying in the dirt street. Pike, with two holes in his chest, died with his back against a support post, his eyes wide staring in disbelief that the kid, any kid, could be so fast. Neither man had managed to clear leather before the death blows hammered them into the hot, yawning, smoking gates of Hell.
All eyes in the black powder-filled and dusty barroom moved to the young man standing by the bar, a Colt in each hand.
“Good God!” a man whispered the words in awe. “I never even seen the draw!”
Preacher had moved the muzzle of his Henry to cover the men at the tables. The bartender put his hands slowly on the bar, indicating that he wanted no trouble.
“We’ll
be leaving now,” Smoke said, holstering his Colts and picking up his purchases from the counter. He walked out the door without looking back.
Outside, Smoke stepped over the sprawled, dead legs of Pike and walked past his dead friend.
“What are we ’posed to do with the bodies?” a man asked Preacher.
“Bury ’em.”
“What’s that kid’s name?” another called. “Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke brought himself back to the present, standing and watching Matt shoot. The boy turned with a smile on his lips, waiting for approval from the most famous gunfighter in all the West.
“You’ll do to ride the river with, Matt,” Smoke told him.
9
Smoke walked back to his room in the barn, his thoughts still lingering back over the years—long and bloody years. He tried to recall the year he’d killed that trash over at Rico. 1868, he thought it was.
He’d have to watch Matt, and watch him carefully.
He looked up as Cheyenne entered the room, his wise old eyes still startled at the speed of the young boy.
“Cheyenne, take the boy under your wing, just like Preacher did me. Teach him what Preacher taught me. He’s going to need all the help he can get, I’m thinking.”
Cheyenne nodded. “First time one of them so-called gunslicks of Jud Vale tries to draw down on that boy and gets plugged in the brisket, the boy is gonna be legend. Like another young man I do seem to recall from some years back.”
Smoke nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been recalling it myself. Matthew’s sure got the speed and the eye, Cheyenne. But I don’t think it’s God-given. I think it’s passed up from Hell!”
“Mayhaps you be right. I have thought the same thing myself more’un a time or two. Now then, Jamie ain’t real fast, but he’s shore enuff a good shot. And Leroy is a fine rifle shot but ain’t worth a puma’s poot with a short gun. Damn near shot hisself in the foot awhile ago.”
“How about the others?”
Rusty walked in, hearing the last. “They’ll do. Smoke. They ain’t no burnin’ firebrands with short guns, but they generally hit what they aim at. I been teachin’ them to take their time and aim, even though the lead might be flyin’ around them.”
Law of the Mountain Man Page 7