Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Is this Harris Black as bad as his brother?” Sally asked the twins.

  “Some say yes, others say no,” Jeanne said.

  “He was elected by a clear majority of the people,” Toni added.

  The sheriff and four tough-looking deputies rode up to the ambush site and dismounted. They all took off their hats in deference to the ladies. They all stared briefly at the ladies dressed in men’s clothing.

  Sally accurately pegged the sheriff as a man torn between loyalties. A man in a mental quandary. His face was a study.

  “Somebody tell me what happened,” Harris said.

  “That murderous brother of yours sent hooded night riders against us,” Toni said. “They stampeded the herd and killed more than a dozen men and boys.”

  Harris sighed as his deputies exchanged glances, looks that were not lost on Smoke.

  “If they were hooded, ma’am,” Harris said. “How do you know they were from the Circle 45?”

  “By the brands on the horses,” Jeanne said.

  Smoke and Sally were staying quiet.

  “Clint Black reports horses stolen from him the other night,” Harris said. “That might account for it. And I said ‘might.’”

  Jeanne and Toni snorted quite unladylike.

  Harris cut his eyes to Smoke. Lord, but the man looked awesome. He just stood there, big and tough and no backup in him. Harris knew there was no way he could stop the war that was about to start. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. “I saw you once or twice. You’d be Smoke Jensen.”

  “That’s right. And the hands that were murdered worked for me. Three of them young boys. It takes brave men to attack women and children. The boys, I’d like to add, were unarmed. I saw to that on the trail.”

  The sheriff rubbed a big hard hand across his face. That he was in mental pain was obvious to all.

  “How did you hear about this, Sheriff?” Sally asked.

  “My brother told me,” the sheriff replied truthfully.

  Smoke sensed that the man had carefully rehearsed this in his mind on the ride out.

  “And you intend to do what about it?” Toni asked.

  “See that it never happens again. And if it does, it’ll be only over my dead body. Now, these deputies will stay out here with you to see to your safety.” He tried a smile. “You feed ’em right and they’ll probably help you round up your stock and get it over to the Double D. Your place is all right, Miss Toni, Miss Jeanne. I checked on that comin’ out.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” Jeanne said. “I just may have to revise my opinion of you.”

  Harris nodded his head. He chose not to reply to that.

  Smoke said, “Start rounding up the cattle, boys. Dan and Guy, you’ll come with me into town at first light. We’ll rent a wagon to haul back supplies.”

  “The supplies will be paid for, Mr. Jensen,” Harris said. “I’ve seen to that. Whatever you need, you just pick up and lay on the counter at Hanlon’s Emporium. Leather goods and clothing and guns and so forth is waiting for you at shops all over town. There are rooms at no cost for you at the hotel.” He didn’t tell them his brother was picking up the tab for everything. His brother didn’t know it yet.

  Smoke and Sheriff Harris Black were left together for a few moments. “You real fond of your brother, Sheriff?” Smoke asked.

  “I wonder now if I ever even liked him.” He cut his eyes to the man some called the last mountain man. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s real easy to prove that your brother sent his hands to ambush us.”

  “He lost some,” Harris spoke the words very softly.

  “Yeah. And I got them laid real neat, all in a row, about a half a mile from where we’re standing.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So you can take a probably much-needed vacation.”

  Harris stood silent for a few seconds. “I don’t think I like that idea.”

  “Sheriff.” Smoke spoke low. “I can have twenty-five or so of the randiest old gunfighters the West has ever known in here in a week. I can travel about fifty miles from where we’re standing and round up just about that many old mountain men—they raised me, Sheriff. Or helped to. You don’t think those men would like to go out of this life in a blaze of glory? Think again. My neighbor down in Colorado is Johnny North. The sheriff is Monte Carson. One of my best friends in this world is Louis Longmont. I’m friends with the Mexican gunfighters, Carbone and Martine. Cotton Pickens is a friend of mine. Do you want me to continue with this list, Sheriff?”

  “It won’t be necessary,” Sheriff Black said, some stiffness to his words. He got Smoke’s message, very loud and clear.

  “What I’m going to do, Sheriff, is this: I’m going into the horse-breeding business. So I think I’ll just stick around this part of the country, looking at horses. And while I’m here, I’ll just act as the foreman of the Double D. I’ll do the hiring. After I send a few telegrams for hands. Hands, Sheriff. Hands. Not gunfighters. Just good steady cowboys who ride for the brand. You know the type, don’t you?”

  Oh, yes, Harris Black knew the type. Men born with the bark on. Men who were not gunfighters, but who could and would damn sure use a rifle or pistol. Men who rode for the brand and God help anyone who tried to rustle cattle from that brand or who bad-mouthed the owner of that brand. Peaceful men for the most part, men who would give you two days’ work for a day’s pay. Men who would eat dust, ride through torrential rain or blizzards, work from can to can’t, all for thirty or forty a month and grub. The American cowboy. And his brother didn’t have a man on his place who could shine a cowboy’s boots.

  “I figure there are probably two hundred head of cattle, maybe more than that, that were injured so badly in the stampede, they’ll die or have to be destroyed. I expect your brother to replace every one of them. And make sure that a half a dozen of them are bulls.”

  The sheriff looked at Smoke for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders philosophically.

  “Your brother have many gunslicks on his payroll?”

  “Most of them are gunhands. Or fancy themselves as such. I got out of that business before the name stuck to me.”

  Smoke smiled. “Yeah, I know, Sandy.”

  Harris cut his eyes and smiled. “I wondered if you’d recognize me. I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

  “It’s safe with me. Gunslicks and cattle aren’t a good mix. What’s your brother doing about branding and roping and night-herding and such?”

  “He sold off most of his herd.”

  “And had plans to seize this one.”

  Harris’s eyes tightened just a bit before he spoke. “Your words, not mine.”

  “Your eyes gave you away.”

  “I’m hoping my brother will pull in his horns and get straightened out.”

  “Too late.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to kill him, that’s why.”

  The blunt statement from Smoke had shocked Harris. He was still thinking about it as he rode back to town. Blood was thick, yes, but on the practical side of it, he could not be angry with Jensen for going after his brother. His brother had plotted the coldblooded murders of over a dozen men and boys, and had planned on killing three women.

  That was inexcusable and unforgivable in a country where even a careless remark to a lady or a slight jostling of a woman on the street could culminate in a killing.

  It had been the matter-of-fact and careless way Smoke had stated his intentions that had shocked Harris. He had spoken the words with no more emotion than if he had said he was going to kill a rattlesnake.

  Well, the thought came to him, his brother could be compared to a rattlesnake, he supposed.

  He was still ruminating on the subject when he swung down in front of his office. His one remaining deputy in town was sitting on the bench on the boardwalk.

  “Jensen gonna come hell for leather, Sheriff?” the deputy asked.

  “No,” Harris said, sit
ting down. “But he is going to kill my brother. He told me so.”

  The deputy took his time rolling a cigarette. He lit it and said, “That’s something that’s past due.”

  Harris looked at the man. He could not even work up a slight anger at the words. Not anymore. He knew how true they were. But it did hurt just a little. His baby brother.

  He had been in another part of the west when Clint came into this area, and Harris still had never found out where and how his brother had started his empire. Probably with stolen cattle…and killings.

  Harris had accepted the badge he now wore because he felt his brother was an honorable man. It didn’t take him long to see how wrong he was. But still he stuck it out while the town and the country grew, turning his back on his brother’s schemes and cheating and the night-riding of his men. Finally Harris had told him, “No more. No more burning out of farmers and small ranchers. It’s over.”

  And surprisingly, it had stopped. But by then, Clint had grown so wealthy and powerful and land-rich that he could afford to stop it.

  Now this…disgrace.

  He stood up from the bench. “Pitiful sight out there, Harry. Make a man’s blood run cold. And Jensen killed about a dozen of Clint’s men. Had them all stretched out neat and in a row for me to see. No question that Clint was behind it. Then he looked at me with those cold rattlesnake eyes and told me flat out he was going to kill my brother.”

  “And you said…?”

  “Nothing. I just walked off. I never met a man like Jensen before. And you can believe I’ve known some damn salty ol’ boys in my time. I’ve covered up a lot for Clint over the years, but nothing like this. I’ve never covered up murder. That I know of. He’s got all his hands ready to testify that no one left the ranch the night of the raid. And Clint’s gonna say that he fired them dead hands a week before the raid. It would be Jensen and them’s word against forty or more hands. No court would convict any of them. I don’t know what to do, Harry.”

  “You want a suggestion?”

  “I’m open.”

  “Back off. Don’t get in Jensen’s way. It’s a hard thing to have to swallow, but your brother is no good. Now he’s tangled with a man who don’t have no backup in him and who’s got the wherewithal to stand tough. Don’t get caught up in the middle of this.”

  Harris shook his head. “I’m a poor excuse for a lawman, Harry.”

  “That’s not true,” the deputy said sharply. “We’ve got a good department. Judges have complimented you on your performance. There is a legal word for what you ought to do in this, but I can’t think of it right off. It means stay the hell out of it, or get someone else in here to handle it, or something like that.”

  “I do that, it just proves that I’m not capable of sheriffin’ this county. But I think, Harry, there comes a time when the law’s got to back off and let men settle their own affairs. There ain’t no law against men callin’ each other out. Not yet anyways. If that happens, it happens. Tomorrow is gonna be an interestin’ day, I’m thinking.”

  The townspeople gathered on the boardwalks as the line of horses came walking slowly up the street. The bodies of the Circle 45 night riders were tied belly down across the saddles. It was not a pleasant sight and the smell was more than slightly worse. Smoke stopped the grisly parade in the center of town and dumped the bodies in the dust of the street.

  The foreman of the Circle 45, Jud Howes, was standing under the awning in front of a saloon. Several of his men stood with him.

  “Oh, hell,” Harry whispered.

  “Yeah,” Harris replied. “Me, too.”

  Smoke stood by the pile of bodies and said to the crowds that lined the streets, “I’m Smoke Jensen. These dead men are, or were, Circle 45 riders. They attacked our camp a couple of nights ago. They killed ten of my men and murdered three young boys. They tried to kill the Duggan twins and my wife. Dispose of the bodies in any manner you see fit.”

  Smoke turned, spotted the horses wearing the Circle 45 brand, and lifted his eyes to the men in front of the saloon. They were fine animals and the saddles were top quality.

  “Who rides these horses?” Smoke called.

  “Me and these boys here,” Jud said. He was thinking that this just might be his last day on earth.

  “Write me out a bill of sale for them. All of them. Including the saddles and the rifles and the ropes.”

  “Do…what?” Jud asked.

  “A lot of our stock was killed, run off, or maimed in that ambush the other night. I’m claiming these horses as part of the replacement. Now either write out a bill of sale, or drag iron. Either way. It doesn’t make a damn to me.”

  “We can take him, Jud,” a hand called Ron said. “Let’s do it.”

  “Shut up,” Jud whispered. “You know what Clint said. All right, Jensen,” he raised his voice. “We didn’t have nothin’ to do with that raid. But if you think these horses will help make up for your loss, you’re welcome to them.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Ron said. “I paid Clint a hundred and fifty dollars for that roan. That ain’t no rough string horse. That’s mine! And you can go to hell, Jensen.”

  Smoke shot him. His draw was so smooth and quick, it was not possible for the human eye to follow. The slug took Ron in the center of the chest and he was dead before he hit the boardwalk. His hand had not even closed around the butt of his .45.

  “Good God!” Harry whispered.

  “And I thought I was fast,” Harris said.

  “Your play,” Smoke said to Jud. He had slipped his .44 back into leather.

  “I said you could have them horses, Jensen,” Jud replied, his voice husky from shock. He had never seen anyone draw a gun that fast. “Soon as I can find pen and paper, I’ll write out a bill of sale.”

  “That’s good. And you boys are gonna walk back to the Circle 45.”

  “We gonna do what?” a hand named Cleon asked.

  “I said you’re going to walk back. Because no one in this town is going to sell or loan you a horse. Now write out that bill of sale and start hoofin’ it. Now!”

  A shopkeeper came up with a tablet and a pen and ink. With a smile, he handed them to Jud. The smile infuriated Jud, but he wisely said nothing about it. Smoke couldn’t hang around forever. Their day would come. He wrote out the bill of sale, waved the paper dry, and held it out to Smoke.

  Smoke stepped forward, took it, inspected it, and then said, “Start walking.”

  “What about Ron?” Jud asked, pointing to the dead night-rider.

  “He’ll be taken care of,” Smoke told him. “And your boss will receive the bill for the burying. Now unbuckle your gun belts and let them fall. We lost guns in the raid, too. Do it and then move out.”

  The astonished and mostly amused townspeople watched as the Circle 45 men dropped their gun belts and slowly stepped off the boardwalk and began the long trek back to their range. There would be several gunslicks soaking their blistered feet that night.

  The undertaker strolled up and began measuring Ron for a box.

  Smoke turned to face the sheriff. “You said something about wagons to haul the supplies back?”

  “Down at the livery,” Harris replied. “You do have a way of getting your point across, Smoke.”

  “Yeah, I do, don’t I?”

  9

  Smoke walked into Hanlon’s Emporium where the boys, Dan and Guy, were waiting for him. A nervous Hanlon was behind the counter.

  “That was some shooting there, Mr. Jensen,” Hanlon said. “Yes, sir. That’s something I can tell my grandchildren about, for sure. Anything in the store you want, sir, you and your hands just lay it out here on the counter and it’s all taken care of. Yes, siree.”

  Smoke had taken all the raiders’ guns, so they were high on guns and ammo and low and out of everything else. It didn’t take long to fill the bed of the wagon.

  “Charge it all to my brother’s account, Hanlon.” Sheriff Black spoke from the door.

  �
�Yes, sir, Sheriff. I’ll certainly do that.”

  Harris walked in and got him several crackers from the barrel and cut off a wedge. He looked at Smoke and held out the crackers and cheese.

  “Yeah,” Smoke said. “And the boys too.” He smiled. “Since your brother is buying.”

  Harris laughed and cut two enormous slices for the boys and a smaller slice for Smoke. “Pickles in that barrel, boys,” he said. “Help yourselves.”

  Smoke had noticed two hands lounging out front. “You know those fellows, Sheriff?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s Ted and Stony. Good punchers and they ride for the brand. They’re out of work.”

  “They can be trusted?”

  “They hate my brother,” Harris said simply.

  “That’s good enough for me.” Smoke walked to the door, digging in his pocket for folding money. “You boys looking for work?” he asked the pair.

  “You bet we are, Mr. Jensen. I’m Stony and this terrible-lookin’ feller with the mop of red hair is Ted.”

  Smoke handed them each fifty dollars. Their eyes widened. “That’s a bonus just for going to work for me and after I’m gone, sticking with the Duggan twins at the Double D. Can you use those guns you’re wearing?”

  “We can hit what we’re shootin’ at, Mr. Jensen,” Ted said. “But we ain’t gunhands.”

  “That’s fine. You got horses?”

  They both looked embarrassed and Smoke knew they were down on their luck. They were young, probably in their mid-twenties, but fate had dealt them a hard hand. “We had to hock our saddles just to eat, Mr. Jensen. And we ain’t done that in two days.”

  “Get yourselves some cheese and crackers and a pickle. Cut off a wedge for the trail while you’re at it. Clint Black is paying for this treat.”

  A wicked glint sprang into the eyes of both young punchers at that news.

  “Then go down to the livery and rope out what you think you can ride. After that, ride escort for these boys and drive those horses with the 45 brand back to the valley.” He handed them the bill of sale. “Pull the rig of that puncher I just shot off his horse and one of you use that. There are plenty of other rigs over across the street.”