“Man ought to have it on his marker who killed him.” Singer didn’t let up. “Matt your first or last name?”
“Neither one. The name is Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
Singer’s jaw dropped so far down Smoke thought it might hit the card table. He turned around and pushed open the doors, walking across the street to his horse. As he swung into the saddle, he was thinking. Should get real interesting around No-Name ... real quick.
4
As Smoke was riding out of the town, one of Tilden’s men, who had been in the bar around the card table, was fogging it toward the Circle TF, lathering a good horse to get the news to Tilden Franklin.
Tilden sat on his front porch and received the news of the gunfight, a look of pure disbelief on his face. “Matt killed Red? What’d he do, shoot him in the back?”
“Stand-up, face-to-face fight, boss,” the puncher said. “But Matt ain’t his real name. It’s Smoke Jensen.”
Tilden dropped his coffee cup, the cup shattering on the porch floor. “Smoke Jensen!” he finally managed to blurt out. “He’s got to be lyin’!”
The puncher shook his head. “You’d have to have been there, boss. Smoke is everything his rep says he is. I ain’t never seen nobody that fast in all my life.”
“Did he let Red clear leather before he drew?” Tilden’s voice was hoarse as he asked the question.
“Yessir.”
“Jensen,” Tilden whispered. “That’s one of his trademarks. Okay, Donnie. Thanks. You better cool down that horse of yours.”
The bowlegged cowboy swaggered off to see to his horse. Tilden leaned back in his porch chair, a sour sensation in his stomach and a bad taste in his mouth. Smoke Jensen ... here! Crap!
What to do?
Tilden seemed to recall that there was a murder warrant out for Smoke Jensen, from years back. But that was way to hell and gone over to Walsenburg; and the men Smoke had killed had murdered his brother and stolen some Confederate gold back during the war. 3
Anyway, Tilden suddenly remembered, that warrant had been dropped.
No doubt about it, Tilden mused, with Smoke Jensen owner of the Sugarloaf, it sure as hell changed things around some. Smoke Jensen was pure hell with a gun. Probably the best gun west of the Mississippi.
And that rankled Tilden too. For Tilden had always fancied himself a gunslick. He had never been bested in a gunfight. He wondered, as he sat on the porch. Was he better than Smoke Jensen?
Well, there was sure one way to find out.
Tilden rejected that idea almost as soon as it popped into his mind.
He did not reject it because of fear. The big man had no fear of Smoke. It was just that there were easier ways to accomplish what he had in mind. Tilden had never lost a fight. Never. Not a fistfight, not a gunfight. He didn’t believe any man could beat him with his fists, and damn few were better than Tilden with a short gun.
He called for his Mexican houseboy to come clean up the mess made by the broken cup and to bring him another cup of coffee.
The mess cleaned up, a fresh cup of steaming coffee at hand, Tilden looked out over just a part of his vast holdings. Some small voice, heretofore unheard or unnoticed, deep within him, told him that all this was enough. More than enough for one man. You’re a rich man it said. Stop while you’re ahead.
Tilden pushed that annoying and stupid thought from his mind. No way he would stop his advance. That was too foolish to even merit consideration.
No, there were other ways to deal with a gunhawk like Jensen. And a plan was forming in Tilden’s mind.
The news of the saloon shooting would soon be all over the area. And the small nester-ranchers like Nolan and Peyton and Matlock and Colby would throw in with Smoke Jensen. Maybe Ray and Mike as well. That was fine with Tilden.
He would just take them out one at a time, saving Jensen for last.
He smiled and sipped his coffee. A good plan, he thought. A very good plan. He had an idea that most of the gold lay beneath the Sugarloaf. And he’d have the Sugarloaf. And the mistress of Sugarloaf too.
Sally.
Sally had dressed in boys’ jeans and a work shirt. Her friends and family back in New Hampshire would be horrified to see her dressed in male clothing but there came a time when practicality must take precedence over fashion. And she felt that time was here.
She looked out the window. Late afternoon. She did not expect Smoke to return for another day — perhaps two more days. She was not afraid. Whenever Smoke rode in for supplies it was a two- or three-day trek — sometimes longer. But those prior trips had been in easier times. Now, one did not know what to expect.
Or from which direction.
As soon as Smoke had gone, she had saddled her pony, a gentle, sure-footed mare, and ridden out into the valley. She had driven two of Smoke’s stallions, Seven and Drifter, back to the house, putting them in the corral. The mountain horses were better than any watchdog she had ever seen. If anyone even came close to the house, they would let her know. And, if turned loose, the stallion Drifter would kill an intruder.
He had done so before.
The midnight-black, yellow-eyed Drifter had a look of Hell about him, and was totally loyal to Smoke and Sally.
Sally had belted a pistol around her waist, leaned a rifle against the wall, next to the door, and laid a double-barreled express gun on the table. She knew how to use all the weapons at hand, and would not hesitate to do so.
The horses and chickens fed, the cow milked, all the other chores done, Sally went back into the house and pulled the heavy shutters closed and secured them. The shutters had gun slits cut into them, which could be opened or closed. She stirred the stew bubbling in the blackened pot and checked her bread in the oven. She sat down on the couch, picked up a book, and began her lonely wait for her man.
Smoke put No-Name Town far behind him and began his long trip back to Sugarloaf. He would stop at the Ray ranch in the morning, talk to him. The fat was surely in the fire by now, and the grease would soon be flaming.
Some eight high-up and winding miles from the town, just as purple shadows were gathering in the mountain country, Smoke picked a spot for the night and began making his lonely camp. He did not have to picket Horse, for Horse would stay close, acting as watcher and guard.
Smoke built a small fire for coffee, and ate from what Sally had fixed for him. Some cold beef, some bread with a bit of homemade jam on it. He drank his coffee, put out the fire, and settled into his blankets, using his saddle for a pillow. In a very short time, he was deep in sleep.
In the still unnamed town, Utah Slim sat in a saloon and sipped a beer. Even though hours had passed since the shooting of Red, the saloon still hummed with conversation about Smoke Jensen. Utah Slim did not join in the conversations around the bar and the tables. So far, few knew who he was. And that was the way he liked it — for a time. When it was time for Utah Slim to announce his intentions, he’d do so.
He was under no illusions; he’d seen Smoke glance his way riding into town. Smoke recognized him. Now it was just a waiting game.
And waiting was something Utah was good at. Something any hired gun had better be good at, or he wouldn’t last long in this business.
Louis Longmont stepped out of his canvas bar and game room and glanced up and down the street. A lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands and long fingers, the nails carefully manicured, the hands clean, Louis had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin mustache. He was dressed in a black suit, with white shirt and dark ascot — the ascot something he’d picked up on a trip to England some years back. He wore low-heeled boots. A pistol hung in tied-down leather on his right side; it was not for show alone. For Louis was snake quick with a short gun. A feared, deadly gunhand when pushed.
Louis was not an evil man. He had never hired his gun out for money. And while he could make a deck of cards do almost anything except stand up and sing “God Save the Queen,” Louis did not cheat at poker. He did not have to cheat.
A man possessed of a phenomenal memory, Louis could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand; and he was also a card-counter. He did not consider that cheating, and most agreed with him that it was not.
Louis was just past forty years of age. He had come to the West as a mere slip of a boy, with his parents, arriving from Louisiana. His parents had died in a shanty-town fire, leaving the boy to cope the best he could.
Louis had coped quite well, thank you.
Louis had been in boom towns all over the West, seeing them come and go. He had a feeling in his guts that this town was going to be a raw bitch-kitty. He knew all about Tilden Franklin, and liked none of what he’d heard. The man was power-mad, and obviously lower class. White trash.
And now Smoke Jensen had made his presence known. Louis wondered why. Why this soon in the power-game? An unanswered question.
For a moment, Louis thought of packing up and pulling out. Just saying the hell with it! For he knew this was not going to be an ordinary gold-rush town. Powerful factions were at work here. Tilden Franklin wanted the entire region as his own. Smoke Jensen stood in his way.
Louis made up his mind. Should be a very interesting confrontation, he thought.
He’d stay.
Big Mamma O’Neil was an evil person. If one could find her heart, it would be as black as sin itself. Big Mamma stepped out in front of her gaming room and love-for-sale tent to look up and down the street. She nodded at Louis. He returned the nod and stepped back inside his tent.
Goddamned stuck-up card-slick! she fumed. Thought he was better than most everyone else. Dressed like a dandy. Talked like some highfalutin’ professor — not that Big Mamma had ever known any professor; she just imagined that was how one would sound.
Big Mamma swung her big head around, once more looking over the town. A massive woman, she was strong as an ox and had killed more than one man with her huge, hard fists. And had killed for money as well as pleasure; one served her interests as much as the other.
Big Mamma was a crack shot with rifle or pistol, having grown up in the raw, wild West, fighting Indians and hooligans and her brothers. She had killed her father with an axe, then taken his guns and his horse and left for Texas. She had never been back.
She had brothers and sisters, but had no idea what had ever become of any of them. She really didn’t care. The only thing she cared about was money and other women. She hated men.
She had seen Smoke Jensen ride in, looking like the arrogant bastard she had always thought he would be. So he had killed some puncher named Red — big deal! A nothing rider who fancied himself a gunhand. She’d heard all the stories about Jensen, and discounted most of them as pure road apples. The rumors were that he had been a Mountain Man. But he was far too young to have been a part of that wild breed.
As far as she was concerned, Smoke Jensen was just another overrated punk.
As the purple shadows melted into darkness over the no-name town that would soon become Fontana, Monte Carson stepped out of the best of the two permanent saloons and looked up and down the wide, dusty street. He hitched at the twin Colts belted around his waist and tied down low.
This town, he thought, was shaping up real nice for a hired gun. And that’s what Monte was. He had hired his guns out in Montana, in the cattle wars out in California, and had fought the sheep farmers and nesters up in Wyoming. And, as he’d fought, his reputation had grown. Monte felt that Tilden Franklin would soon be contacting him. He could wait.
On the now-well-traveled road for beneath where Smoke slept peacefully, wagons continued to roll and rumble along, carrying their human cargo toward No-Name Town. The line of wagons and buggies and riders and walkers was now several miles long. Gamblers and would-be shopowners and whores and gunfighters and snake-oil salesmen and pimps and troublemakers and murderers and good solid family people ... all of them heading for No-Name with but one thought in their minds. Gold.
At the end of the line of gold-seekers, not a part of them but yet with the same destination if not sharing the same motives, rattled a half a dozen wagons. Ed Jackson was new to the raw West — a shopkeeper from Illinois with his wife Peg. They were both young and very idealistic, and had no working knowledge of the real West. They were looking for a place to settle. This no-name town sounded good to them. Ed’s brother Paul drove the heavily laden supply wagon, containing part of what they just knew would make them respected and secure citizens. Paul was as naive as his brother and sister-in-law concerning the West.
In the third wagon came Ralph Morrow and his wife Bountiful. They were missionaries, sent into the godless West by their Church, to save souls and soothe the sinful spirits of those who had not yet accepted Christ into their lives. They had been looking for a place to settle when they had hooked up with Ed and Peg and Paul. This was the first time Ralph and Bountiful had been west of Eastern Ohio. It was exciting. A challenge.
They thought.
In the fourth wagon rode another young couple, married only a few years, Hunt and Willow Brook. Hunt was a lawyer, looking for a place to practice all he’d just been taught back East. This new gold rush town seemed just the place to start.
In the fifth wagon rode Colton and Mona Spalding. A doctor and nurse, respectively. They had both graduated their schools only last year, mulled matters over, and decided to head West. They were young and handsome and pretty. And, like the others in their little caravan, they had absolutely no idea what they were riding into.
In the last wagon, a huge, solidly built vehicle with six mules pulling it, came Haywood and Dana Arden. Like the others, they were young and full of grand ideas. Haywood had inherited a failing newspaper from his father back in Pennsylvania and decided to pull out and head West to seek their fortunes.
“Oh Haywood!” Dana said, her eyes shining with excitement. “It’s all so wonderful.”
“Yes,” Haywood agreed, just as the right rear wheel of their wagon fell off.
5
Smoke was up long before dawn spread her shimmering rays of light over the land. He slipped out of his blankets and put his hat on, then pulled on his boots and strapped on his guns. He checked to see how Horse was doing, then washed his face with water from his canteen. He built a small, hand-sized fire and boiled coffee. He munched on a thick piece of bread and sipped his coffee, sitting with his back to a tree, his eyes taking in the first silver streaks of a new day in the high-up country of Colorado.
He had spotted a fire far down below him, near the winding road. A very large fire. Much too large unless those who built it were roasting an entire deer — head, horns, and all. He finished the small, blackened pot of coffee, carefully doused his fire, and saddled Horse, stowing his gear in the saddle bags.
He swung into the saddle. “Steady now, Horse,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s see how quiet we can be backtracking.”
Horse and rider made their way slowly and quietly down from the high terrain toward the road miles away using the twisting, winding trails. Smoke uncased U.S. Army binoculars he’d picked up years back, while traveling with his mentor, the old Mountain Man Preacher, and studied the situation.
Five, no — six wagons. One of them down with a busted back wheel. Six men, five women. All young, in their early twenties, Smoke guessed. The women were all very pretty, the men all handsome and apparently — at least to Smoke, at least at this distance — helpless.
He used his knees to signal Horse, and the animal moved out, taking its head, picking the route. Stopping after a few hundred twisting yards, Smoke once more surveyed the situation. His binoculars picked up movement coming from the direction of No-Name. Four riders. He studied the men, watching them approach the wagons. Drifters, from the look of them. Probably spent the night in No-Name gambling and whoring and were heading out to stake a gold claim. They looked like trouble.
Staying in the deep and lush timer, Smoke edged closer still. Several hundred yards from the wagon, Smoke halted and held back, wanting to see how these p
ilgrims would handle the approach of the riders.
He could not hear all that was said, but he could get most of it from his hidden location.
He had pegged the riders accurately. They were trouble. They reined up and sat their horses, grinning at the men and women. Especially the women.
“You folks look like you got a mite of trouble,” one rider said.
“A bit,” a friendly-looking man responded. “We’re just getting ready to fulcrum the wagon.”
“You’re gonna do what to it?” another rider blurted.
“Raise it up,” a pilgrim said.
“Oh. You folks headin’ to Fontana?”
The wagon people looked at each other.
Fontana! Smoke thought. Where in the hell is Fontana?
“I’m sorry,” one of the women said. “We’re not familiar with that place.”
“That’s what they just named the town up yonder,” a rider said, jerking his thumb in the direction of No-Name. “Stuck up a big sign last night.”
So No-Name has a name, Smoke thought. Wonder whose idea that was.
But he thought he knew. Tilden Franklin.
Smoke looked at the women of the wagons. They were, to a woman, all very pretty and built-up nice. Very shapely. The men with them didn’t look like much to Smoke; but then, he thought, they were Easterners. Probably good men back there. But out there, they were out of their element.
And Smoke didn’t like the look in the eyes of the riders. One kept glancing up and down the road. As yet, no traffic had appeared. But Smoke knew the stream of gold-hunters would soon appear. If the drifters were going to start something — the women being what they wanted, he was sure — they would make their move pretty quick.
At some unspoken signal, the riders dismounted.
Trail of the Mountain Man Page 3