“I hope he keeps on riding,” Walt said. “Baylis is a troublemaker. Runs a little rawhide spread not far from here. There is a mean streak in the man that I never could cotton to. Shame too, ’cause he came from good stock. I knew both his parents ’fore they died.”
“How’s he live?” Smoke asked. “That was a good horse and a fancy rig.”
“Lot of us have wondered that,” another association member told Smoke. “I ain’t sayin’ he’s crooked, but it wouldn’t surprise me to find out he was.”
“Maybe he’s headin’ back to Montana,” yet another suggested. “He worked up there for years. Say! I think he worked for the Circle 45, come to think of it.”
The herd pushed on and for a time they had nothing but beautiful weather. The boys were turning into good hands, and it surprised everybody to see how closely they watched the remuda and how well they took to accepting responsibility.
The days began to blend together as they pushed north. The herd was stopped several times by cattlemen association members, and by curious ranchers, but the letter Walt had given Smoke quickly brought smiles and offers of meals and a chance to take a real bath in a tub, something Sally jumped at.
“I’ve heard about you for years, Smoke,” a rancher said, over a fine meal of fried chicken and potatoes and gravy. “I figured you’d be a much older man.”
“I got started young,” Smoke said with a smile.
“Oh?”
“After my pa was killed, an old mountain man name of Preacher took me in…”
“Why, say! Preacher’s famous. He took the first wagon train over the Oregon Trail, didn’t he?”
“Something like that. Preacher was the first to do a lot of things out here. My teenage years were spent in the company of old mountain men. I got a pretty good education.”
The rancher’s kids, ranging in age from about twelve to twenty, sat at the long table, eyes bright with excitement. Smoke Jensen, the gunfighter who’d killed about a zillion bad hombres was really here and eating fried chicken just like everybody else.
“And you and Sally have been married…how long?” a teenage girl asked.
“Well,” Smoke said. “Ah…”
“You’d better get it right,” Sally warned and everybody laughed.
“We’ve been married, ah…ten years,” Smoke said.
“That’s close,” Sally said.
“Your first wife was…” The boy closed his mouth at a hard glance from his father.
“It’s all right,” Smoke said. “Her name was Nicole. We were married, sort of. Had a bent nail for a wedding ring. We had a son. Named him Arthur, that was Preacher’s name. Outlaws came one day while I was gone. They killed the baby and then raped and killed Nicole. I tracked them down and called them out in a mining town.”
“How many of them were there, Mr. Smoke?” a girl asked.
“Fourteen.”
“Jesus,” the rancher whispered.
“Did you get them all, Smoke?” the oldest boy asked.
“I got them all.”
“How old were you, Smoke?” the rancher’s wife asked in a soft voice.
“I think I was twenty-one. I’m not real sure how old I am,” ma’am.
The father put a stop to it. “No more questions.”
The young kids were off to bed; the women went to the parlor—much to Sally’s disgust—while the rancher, his oldest son, and Smoke, went into the den for whiskey and cigars. Smoke waved off the cigar and rolled a cigarette.
“What do you know about a man named Clint Black?” Smoke asked.
The rancher’s eyebrows lifted as he was lighting his cigar. When he had the tip glowing just right, he said, “He’s a bad one, Smoke. I’d say he’s probably in his mid-to-late forties. Ruthless and dangerous and powerful. He took country that was untamed and built an empire out of it. He’s big and strong as a bull. And there is no backup in him. It’s his way, or no way at all.”
“Nobody is right but him.”
“That’s it. Anybody gets in his way, he just rides right over them.”
“Would he hurt a boy? Those boys I have with me, for instance?”
“Oh…I wouldn’t think so. But with a man like that, hell, you never know. I know he’s run off nesters, but I never heard of him or his men ever harming a child. Hell, I ran off nesters, ’til I got tired of it and learned to live with them.”
“You know anything at all about T. J. Duggan and the Double D ranch?”
The rancher shook his head. “Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of him or his brand. T. J. Duggan. Don’t ring a bell with me.”
The herd slowly put the miles behind them. They crossed rivers, pulled cattle out of quicksand and fought the heat and ate the dust and endured the loneliness of the trail, with the older men remembering how it was years back, when there were no towns along the way. When there was nothing except an empty, seemingly never-ending vastness and then screaming Indians that came out of nowhere.
It was bad now, but it was worse back then.
About fifty miles after crossing the North Platte, they hit a vast grassland, and the cattle slowly ate their way across, regaining the few pounds lost on the way north.
Holding the herd outside of a small town in northern Wyoming, Smoke and several other riders accompanied the wagon in for supplies.
It wasn’t much of a town, even by Western standards. A large general store, a blacksmith, a saloon. The stage stopped twice a week. The town had sprung up out of nowhere, had lasted a few years, now was dying. Another couple of years and it would join the many other towns that failed in the West.
Not too many miles to the west, there was another settlement called Donkey Town, although some were trying to get its name changed to Rocky Pile.
While the supplies were being loaded, Smoke walked the short distance to the saloon. If there was any news worth hearing, he would learn of it at the saloon. There were half a dozen horses at the hitchrail and two wagons in the street. Smoke pushed open the batwings and the buzz of conversation slowed, then stopped as he ordered a beer and leaned against the bar.
He was used to that. Nearly everyone in the rural west carried a gun; few carried two guns; almost no one wore his guns the way Smoke wore his. It branded him. Smoke moved to the shadows at the far end of the bar. He hadn’t had time to lift the mug to his lips when the batwings flew open and two young men stomped in.
“Hell of a herd outside of town,” one said. “And, boy you ought to see the cook. She’s a looker, let me tell you.’
“Wears men’s britches,” the second one said. “Rob here like to have fell off his horse starin’.”
“Got a bunch of snot-nosed kids wranglin’,” Rob said. “Might be fun to go out there and hoo-rah ’em some. What’d you say, Carl?”
“Kids?” a man questioned. He sat at a table with three other men. “What kind of a damn fool outfit hires kids as drovers?”
The pair obviously had not seen any hands except the boys at the remuda. Smoke sipped his beer and waited and listened. Talk was one thing, but hoo-rahing the herd was quite another.
The batwings were shoved open and a young man rushed in, his face flushed. “You heard the news?” The words rushed out of his mouth. “That herd outside of town belongs to Smoke Jensen!”
“You’re crazy!” Carl told him. “Who told you that?”
“One of them kids at the remuda.”
“Aw, he’s just sayin’ that so’s no one will bother ’em. Smoke Jensen ain’t got no herd. I don’t even think there is such a person noways. I think all that’s made-up stuff.”
Rob hitched at his gun belt. “Oh, he’s a real person, all right. My brother seen him a couple of years ago. Backed him down, too, my brother did. Jensen ain’t much. I’d like to see Jensen in action. I think I’m faster.”
“Your brother’s got a fat mouth,” a cowboy spoke from a table. “Smoke Jensen ain’t never backed down from no one. And leave them boys out yonder alone. Nobody but
a tin-horn would hoo-rah a herd.”
“If my brother was here, you’d not be sayin’ them words,” Rob yelled.
“Go get him,” the cowboy said. “I’ll say it to his face. As far as you bein’ better than Smoke Jensen…you’re a fool. You best take them pearl-handled six shooters off before somebody snatches ’em offen you and shoves ’em down your throat. Or shoves ’em up another part of your a-natomy.”
“You think you’re big enough to do it!” Rob screamed.
“Yeah,” the cowboy said. “I sure do.”
“How have you been, Al?” Smoke broke into the conversation.
The cowboy smiled. “Pretty good. I wondered if you recognized me.”
“Stay out of this!” Rob yelled at Smoke.
Smoke ignored him. “I heard you were working up this way. Heard you had your own spread.”
“Sure do. Got married and all that. How’s things down on the Sugarloaf?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Keep your mouth shut!” Rob yelled at the tall man in the shadows. “When I want you to butt into my affairs, I’ll let you know. You hear me?”
“Al Jacobs will eat your lunch, boy,” Smoke told him. “He’s a bad man to tangle with. Me and Al go way back. He used to work for me down in Colorado.”
“I don’t give a damn where he used to work and I don’t give a damn about you. Now why don’t you just shut up and mind your own business. That two-bit rawhider insulted my brother and insulted me. Stay out of things that don’t concern you ’fore I call you out too.”
Al laughed at that. “The kid’s sure got his dander up, don’t he?”
“Hey, don’t you call me no kid, you son of a bitch!” Rob yelled.
The saloon became very quiet. Call a cowboy a flea-bitten, no-count, worthless saddle bum, and he’ll probably laugh at you. Besmirch a cowboy’s mother’s name, and in all probability he’ll kill you.
Al slowly rose from his chair, his hand hovering over the butt of his .45.
“Back off, Rob,” Smoke said quietly. “Back off and apologize to Al. That remark was uncalled for.”
Carl decided it was time for him to stick his mouth into the tense situation. “Hey, mister! Who the hell asked you to butt in? You a friend of Al?”
“That’s right,” Smoke said, still standing in the shadows.
“Then you get your butt out here and face me.”
“Now boys,” the barkeep said. “I just mopped this floor.”
“Shut up!” Carl told him. He stared into the gloom where Smoke stood. “You! Get your butt out here.”
Sonny, one of the boys who had come into town for some licorice, stood at the batwings. “We’re all loaded and ready to go, Mr. Smoke,” he called.
The saloon became as quiet as a grave.
4
“Go on back to the herd, Sonny,” Smoke told him. “I’ll be along presently.”
The boy had sized up the situation instantly. “Yes, sir!” Sonny hit the air.
“Jesus God Almighty,” one of the seated men breathed.
Smoke stepped out of the shadows. He didn’t have to wonder if he’d slipped the hammer thongs from his .44s. That was done by reflex as soon as his boots touched ground out of the stirrups. “This does not have to be,” he told Rob and Carl. “Rob, you insulted a man and you owe him an apology. Carl, from now on, you’d best think before you challenge a man.”
“You can go right straight to Hell,” Carl said, his words thick, almost slurred.
“Don’t do this, Carl.” The barkeep said his words softly. “Don’t do it, son.”
“Shut up!” Carl told him. “I’ll be famous. I’ll be the man who killed Smoke Jensen.”
“No, you won’t,” one of the card-playing men called. “You’ll just be dead.”
“We’ll pull together, Smoke,” Al said. “If it comes to that.”
“All right,” Smoke replied, his eyes riveted on Carl. “It won’t be any disgrace for you to just walk out of here, boys.”
“I ain’t no boy!” Rob screamed. “I’m a man grown.”
“Then act like one!” Smoke snapped at him. “Men admit their mistakes and grow more mature each time they do. Boys let their mouths get them into trouble and then let pride get them killed. A man is dead a long time. Think about that.”
“I think he’s yeller,” Carl said, a mean smile moving his lips. “The big shot Smoke Jensen is takin’ water.”
“Yeah,” Rob said, his eyes lighting up. “Both of ’em are pure-dee yeller-bellies.”
“It’s no use, Smoke,” Al said. “You and me, we’ve seen this played out ten dozen times.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Smoke admitted.
“Damn, they’re gonna do it,” a man said, as chairs were pushed back and the tables emptied with men moving about, hoping to get out of the way of any stray bullets.
Smoke felt a sadness take him. The young man was obviously scared, but his stupid pride was crawling all over him, refusing to allow him to back down.
The young man jerked his iron. He was pitifully slow.
Smoke put two rounds into Carl’s gun hand. The first hit his gun and tore it from his hand, the second round smashed into the hand, breaking it. Al’s draw had been smooth and his aim true. Rob stood holding a bloody shoulder.
“I just don’t want to kill no more, Smoke,” the gunfighter turned rancher said. “Not unless I just have to do it. You know what I mean?”
“Oh, yes. I sure do.”
“You ruined my hand!” Carl sobbed. “It’s all busted up.”
“My shoulder’s broken,” Rob moaned.
“But you’re both alive,” the barkeep said, after picking himself up off the floor. “Now get the hell over to the barber shop so’s Ed can patch you both up. Go on, now, move. You’re leakin’ blood all over the floor.”
Sobbing and stumbling, the two young men whose gun-fighting days had just begun and ended staggered to the batwings and into the street.
Smoke and Al holstered their guns. Al smiled. “Good to see you again, Smoke.”
“Same here, Al. You take care.”
“Will do.” The man walked out of the saloon and mounted up, riding away without even so much as a glance over his shoulder.
Smoke held up his empty mug. “Want to fill this up?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” the barkeep said. “It’s on the house, Mr. Jensen. Yessiree, bob. On the house.”
Smoke took his drink to a table by the window and sat down. “What about this brother of Rob’s?” Smoke tossed the question out.
“Oh, I reckon he’ll catch up with the herd and call you out, all right,” a man said. “He ain’t got no more sense than Rob. But he is a mite faster, I’ll warn you of that. But I don’t think you’re in any mortal danger,” he added drily.
“I already know that.”
“They call him Rocky,” another said.
Smoke was thoughtful for a moment. “He live far from here?”
“’Bout three miles out of town.”
“I don’t want my herd stampeded or any of my hands hit by stray bullets. Go get him and let’s straighten this mess out right now.”
A man stood up. “I’ll do that, Mr. Jensen. Yes, sir, I sure will.”
The barkeep opened his mouth.
“I don’t wish any further conversation.” Smoke spoke the words softly.
“Right,” the barkeep said. “Mouth is hereby closed.”
It didn’t take long for Rocky to ride in and swing down from the saddle in front of the barber shop. Two guns and all. Smoke knew, by the way he walked, the man wasn’t in any mood to talk. The man who had fetched him got him a beer and returned to his table.
“He says he’s gonna kill you, Smoke.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, here he comes,” another stated.
Smoke waited about four feet inside the batwings. He had slipped on leather gloves.
Boots thudded on the ol
d boards. “Jensen! You better make your peace with the Lord. ’Cause I’m shore gonna kill you for what you done to my brother.”
Rocky slammed open the batwings and charged inside. Smoke hit him flush in the mouth. Rocky’s boots went out from under him and he sailed right back out into the street, landing on his butt. The dust flew.
Smoke stepped out and kicked the gun from Rocky’s hand. He reached down and slapped the man hard, twice across the face, addling him, and then jerked out his other Colt and tossed it into a horse trough. Then he hauled Rocky up and proceeded to beat the snot out of him.
Rocky didn’t get a chance to land a single punch. All he did was receive them, and he received a goodly number of them, divided about equally between ribs and face.
When Smoke finally let the would-be gunslinger fall, he was pretty sure that Rocky’s jaw was broken in at least two places and he had numerous broken ribs. Rocky would not be riding for a long time.
Smoke swung up into the saddle and faced the crowd of men and women. “Give him a message from me. Tell him I gave him his life. This time only. Explain to him that Carl and Rob crowded Al and me. Not the other way around. Try to get it through Rocky’s head that if I ever see him again, and he’s wearing a gun, I fully intend to kill him. On the spot.” He turned his horse and rode out of town.
“I do like a feller who knows his mind and speaks it,” a man said. “And Jensen can sure enough speak it plain. Well, come on. Let’s drag Rocky over to Ed’s. Most excitement we’ve had in this town in ten years.”
At the herd, Sally walked to her husband’s side. “Any trouble in town?”
“Not to speak of. Saw Al Jacobs and we had a beer together. He’s ranching and married now. I forgot to ask if he had any kids. He looked real good.”
Sally looked at the blood splattered on Smoke’s shirt. “It must have been a lively conversation. Get out of that shirt so I can soak it before the blood sets. What in the world did you two talk about?”
Smoke stripped off his shirt and handed it to her, then rummaged around in his bedroll for a fresh shirt. “We saved some lives there in the town. Al and me, we put two young fellows back on the right road. You might say we read to them from the scriptures.”
Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man Page 29