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

by William W. Johnstone

  “You don’t appear worried about your husband,” Toni said, looking at Sally.

  “Oh, I’m plenty worried about him. But he has to do what he has to do, that’s all. I would have been shocked had he not. He’s waited a week for the law to do something. The law has done nothing. Now Smoke will see to the administering of justice. The Western way.”

  There was something about the way he sat his horse, something about his bearing, that cleared the streets of Blackstown the instant he rode in. Smoke stabled his horse and checked his guns. He had seen horses at the hitchrail in front of the saloon; horses that wore the Circle 45 brand. He walked slowly up the boardwalk. Sheriff Black stepped out of his office, blocking Smoke’s way.

  “Goin’ somewhere, Smoke?”

  “To the saloon for a drink. You have some objections to my doing that, Sheriff?”

  “Damnit, Jensen. You know there are Circle 45 hands over there.”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “The services for the dead will be at sundown this evening, Sheriff. You plan to attend?”

  “Which dead?” the sheriff asked sourly. “The dead found in the cave or the men you’re about to kill?”

  Smoke stood and stared at the man. Finally he said, “I waited for the law to act. The law did nothing. You know your brother ordered that ambush. And you know that all the Circle 45 hands either took part in it or had direct knowledge of it. Now you either stand aside, or you help me kill dangerous rabid animals. You really don’t want to get in my way, Sandy,” he called him by the name the sheriff used back when he was a gunfighter. “The choice is yours to make.”

  Sheriff Black knew he was not as fast as Jensen. And he also knew that Smoke was right. He was sworn to uphold the law and protect decent, law-abiding citizens, but the words “decent and law-abiding,” he knew, did not include his brother or the men working for his brother. The sheriff sighed. “Go stomp on your snakes, Jensen.” He turned and walked back into his office, closing the door behind him.

  Smoke walked on up the street, then cut across to the other side, approaching the saloon from the one side that butted up against another building. He pushed open the batwings and stepped inside. Four men sat at a table, drinking beer and playing cards. Everybody else had vacated the saloon at the news of Smoke Jensen riding into town.

  Only the barkeep was left, and he was so scared he looked like he was going to pass out any moment.

  Smoke put his hand on a chair back and said, “You boys dumb enough to ride a Circle 45 horse?”

  The card players sat quietly, their hands on the table. They knew better than to have them by their sides when Jensen walked in, for he was on the prod. “We’re ridin’ ’em, yeah,” one hand said.

  “Did you steal them or are you on Clint Black’s payroll?”

  “We ride for the Circle 45,” another said. “And we been ridin’ for Clint for a long time.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “That’s a fact, Jensen.”

  Smoke cut his eyes to the barkeep. “Is there a dentist in this town, friend?”

  “Why…ah, yeah. There is. Right over the undertaker’s place. You got a toothache, Mr. Jensen?”

  “No. But this dirty, back-shooting, murderous ambusher here does.”

  The hand just had time to turn around and say, “Who are you callin’ a…?”

  Smoke hit him in the face with the hickory chair. Blood and teeth and snot flew. The chair splintered. Holding the back rail of the busted chair, Smoke hit another hand smack in the mouth, then bounced the hickory off the noggin of a third. The fourth jumped up clawing for his six-gun. Smoke hit him right between the eyes with the hickory club and the Circle 45 rider went down like a sack of potatoes.

  Smoke grabbed the first one he’d hit and tossed him through the big window. The hand smashed through the hitchrail and landed in the dirt, out cold with several broken ribs. Smoke backhanded another and sent him sprawling, then the third 45 hand staggered to his feet and Smoke sent him sailing out the batwings. Smoke hit another five times in the side, the blows sounding like swinging a sledge hammer against a side of raw beef. Ribs cracked under the blows and the man fell to the floor, moaning in pain.

  The one Smoke backhanded came to his feet, his face bloody and ugly and one hand closing around the butt of his Colt. Smoke stepped forward and clubbed the man with one huge fist. Then he grabbed the man’s gun arm and broke it by slamming it against the bar. The would-be gunhandler screamed and passed out.

  Smoke dragged them outside and threw them in the dirt. Sheriff Black and his deputies stood on the other side of the wide main street and did not interfere. Smoke dunked one in the horse trough several times and got him on his feet. His nose was spread all over his face and his lips were pulped.

  “I’ll say this one time, mister,” Smoke told the man. “You and the rest of this trash here ride out of this part of Montana. Go back to the ranch, pack your kit, and ride out—today. If I see you again, I’ll kill you where you stand and I won’t give you one second’s warning. Do you understand all that?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man mumbled through ruined lips.

  “Ride!”

  Smoke released the man and the cowboy almost fell down. He managed to get his friends on their feet and on their horses. They left town without looking back.

  Smoke went back into the saloon and tossed money on the bar. “That will pay for the busted window and the chair. Give me a beer.”

  Smoke was sitting down sipping his brew when the sheriff walked in and over to the table. He sat down and stared at Smoke for a moment.

  “You do understand that you just whipped four pretty tough ol’ boys?”

  “So?”

  Harris shook his head. “You think they’ll really haul their ashes?”

  “They’ll either pull out or be buried here. I meant what I said.”

  “I could wire the territorial governor and have him send the state militia in.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “That wouldn’t stop you, would it?”

  “No.”

  “You’re really going to kill my brother, aren’t you?”

  “First I’m going to bring him to his knees.”

  “That will never happen.”

  Smoke’s smile was close to a death’s-head. His words were very softly spoken. “You want to bet?”

  11

  Clint Black sat in the study of his fine home and pondered his future. At the moment, it did not appear to be very bright. He had seen the four punchers come riding in, all beat up to hell and back, and watched as Jud paid them off and they left, that day, taking their broken ribs and busted arms and tore up faces and hauling their ashes out of the country. It had not set well with his other hands.

  That Jensen had whipped four pretty rough ol’ boys in a fight shocked the rancher. He’d whipped two men at a time more than once. But four men! Nobody whips four men at a time. But Smoke Jensen had done it, and then, according to what Clint had heard from spies in town, Jensen just calmly sat down and had him a beer with the sheriff.

  He had made a mistake by attacking the camp site. He admitted that. He was sorry he’d done it. He was genuinely sorry about it. But he wasn’t sorry enough about it to admit to it in any court of law. Clint certainly was sorry, but not for the right reasons.

  So some forty-dollar-a-month cowhands and some snot-nosed kids had been killed. Well, big deal. Clint could buy people like that all day long. They were nothing. Nobodies.

  He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t admit his part in the attack. At worst he’d be hanged; at best he’d be run out of the country. And now Jensen had bragged that he was going to put Clint Black on his knees. Well, that had been tried before. Clint was still standing tall while the men who’d tried to bring him down were rotting in the graves.

  And Jensen moved fast. Already carpenters were banging away inside and outside the new First United Bank of B
lackstown. And Clint had heard rumblings that most of his depositors were going to pull out, once the new bank opened. He sighed heavily. That wouldn’t hurt him; the bank was solvent. It was losing face that bothered Clint. Worse than that, it was a slap in the face.

  All in all, Clint concluded, Smoke Jensen was becoming a royal pain in the butt.

  “What happened to the man who owned this spread?” Smoke asked.

  The herd had been rounded up and moved to Double D land. Clint had yet to replace those cattle that had been lost; indeed, nothing had been heard from the man or any of his hands and it was a week past the fight in the saloon.

  “Rustlers,” Stony told him. “Ever’ time he’d get his herd built up, night riders would come in and wipe him out. He finally gave up and sold out. But not to Clint, and that really galled Black. Boss? Have you given any thought to grabbin’ one of the Circle 45 bunch and makin’ him talk?”

  “Torture, Stony? No. For a lot of reasons. It boils down to it’d be his word against forty others. It wouldn’t even come to court. I’ve got all summer. We’ll just keep whittling away at Clint. Nipping at his heels and being a splinter in his butt that he can’t get to. It’ll get to him. He’ll eventually lose his temper and make that one big mistake.”

  “And then, boss?”

  “And then he’ll face me.”

  Stony looked at Smoke and felt a chill crawl around in his belly. He knew then for an ironclad fact that his boss had placed a death sentence on Clint Black and meant to carry it out. And Smoke Jensen didn’t give a tinker’s damn what the law might have to say about it. Jensen was going to angle Clint into a position where he had no back-out room, and then Smoke was going to force-feed him lead.

  But first he was going to break Clint Black, slowly and steadily.

  Stony shifted his eyes for another look at Smoke Jensen. He had ridden back to the camp after the saloon fight and had not said one word about it. Only after a hand had ridden into town for some tobacco had the word come back. Jensen had walked into the saloon, tossed down the gloves and proceeded to stomp the snot out of four men. Stony hid a smile. Things were sure going to be interesting this summer. Real interesting. And he sure was glad he had stuck around.

  Lucas, one of Sheriff Black’s deputies, noticed the men ride slowly into town. Six of them. They wore long dusters and rode fine horses. Horses way too costly for the average cowhand to ever afford. Then his half-rolled cigarette was forgotten as he recognized the man on the big, high-steppin’ bay. Yukon Golden. He stepped to the office door.

  “Harris,” he said softly. “I think your brother’s done gone and hired himself some real gunslingers. That’s Yukon Golden in that bunch reinin’ in by the hotel.”

  With a curse, Harris shoved back from the paperwork at his desk and grabbed his hat. He stepped out onto the boardwalk for a look.

  “Bronco Ford,” Harris said, eyeballing the six men as they dismounted and stood on the boardwalk in front of the hotel. “He’s a bad one.”

  “You know them yahoos, Harris?”

  “I know them all, Lucas. That short stumpy one is Austin Charles. He’s hell on wheels with a gun. That’s Red Hyde next to him. That long tall drink of water is Slim King. The big one in the bunch is Carson. They call him Grub ’cause he eats all the time. When he’s not hiring out his gun to kill people.”

  “We got trouble.”

  “Oh, they won’t mess with any of us. But they’ll sure try Smoke Jensen. The man who kills Smoke Jensen can name his price after that.”

  “That sorry-lookin’ bunch is that fast?”

  “They’re professional gunhandlers, Lucas. It’s how they make their living. Damn my brother. Damn his eyes. He’s declared war and he doesn’t know what he’s begun.”

  “Harris?”

  “Huh?”

  “Smoke Jensen’s ridin’ in.”

  Harris cut his eyes. “Oh, hell!” he said.

  Smoke walked his horse over to the hitchrail and swung down. He had seen the six men lounging in front of the hotel, and his eyes had picked up on the strange brands. He knew the men for what they were. They had the mark on them just as plainly as the brands on their horses.

  Smoke stepped up on the boardwalk and nodded at the sheriff and his deputy.

  “Trouble over yonder, Smoke,” Harris said.

  “I see them. Did your brother hire them?”

  “I don’t know, Smoke. He no longer speaks to me. But I’d say it would be a safe bet that he sent for those men.”

  “Then they’ll be more coming in,” Smoke said. “Men like those over there smell blood money. They’ve got the damndest pipeline I have ever known. Word gets around like lightning. Your brother’s made up his mind.”

  “To do what?” Harris asked. “Defend his own land? Goddamnit, it’s his, Jensen. He settled it and proved it up years ago. You came in here and laid down your challenge. What the hell do you expect him to do?”

  “You defending him now, Harris?”

  “No. No, I’m not. He did wrong and I know it. But even if I went to a judge and signed a deposition that my brother told me he planned the raid, it’s doubtful that the judge would let it be entered as evidence. Yes, Jensen, damn you, yes. My brother admitted to me that he ordered the raid. But it comes down to my word against his. I can’t show any solid proof that Clint engineered the ambush. That’s the way it stands now.”

  “I see. Well, you ask what I expected of your brother, now let me ask what you expect of me?”

  “Take your wife and what hands you have left and go back to Colorado.”

  “And let murderers go unpunished?”

  “It’s not up to you, Jensen!” Harris flared at him. “That’s my job, and the judges and the lawyers and the juries. You don’t want justice, Jensen. You want revenge. Just like when the Slater gang attacked Big Rock and shot up the place. How many of them did you kill, Jensen?”

  “All of them.”

  “Just tracked them down, one by one, and killed them?”

  “We faced each other, Black. You know me that well.”

  “Suppose…suppose I could guarantee you that my brother would never harm another person? That I would personally see to that. That he would fire his gunhands—his whole crew—hire nothing but cowboys, and stick with ranching his property. If I could convince him to do that, would you leave?”

  Smoke took that time to roll a cigarette and light it. He took a draw and said, “Yes. Yes, I would. When he comes to me and faces me and tells me that personally. When he swears to me that the Double D, and all the other ranches in this area will be left alone and I see his hands leave and new men come in, cowboys, I’ll leave. You have my word.”

  “Fine. I think I can get him to agree to that. You meet me here at my office, first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Clint told him. “You want me to apologize to Jensen and crawl around on my belly like a whipped dog? You go to hell, Harris. You just go straight back to town and take your stupid suggestions with you. Just go to hell, Big Brother. And stay out of my affairs.”

  “You break the law, Clint, you’re going to jail. That’s a promise.”

  “You’ll never put me behind bars, Harris,” his brother warned. “Don’t ever try to do that.”

  “If the time comes, I won’t try to do it, Clint. I’ll just do it. Clint, think about this offer. Think on it, man. It means peace. Clint, my God, you’re a wealthy man. You have all the money you could ever spend. You’ve got a fine home, great holdings of land. You’ve got it made! Jensen is willing to ride out and put this…tragedy behind him.”

  Clint shook his head and laughed at his brother. “Sure, Harris. But only after I grovel in the dirt like a bum begging for a handout. No way.”

  Harris opened his mouth to plead with his brother. Clint’s hard words closed it.

  “I don’t want to hear any more of your sniveling. No more of it, Sheriff Blac
k.” He slurred the word “sheriff.” “Not another word. Leave me alone about it and stay out of my affairs. Now get out of my house, Harris. And don’t come back. You hear me? Don’t come back!”

  “You’re a fool, Clint. You’re a fool. I don’t care how many gunslicks you hire, you’re not going to win this fight with Jensen. He’ll kill you. He’ll break you, humiliate you, and then he’ll kill you.”

  “Get out!” Clint screamed, half rising from his chair. “Get out of my house, goddamn you. Get out, I say!”

  Harris picked up his hat and started for the door. He turned around and looked at his brother. “Goodbye, Clint. I used to think that mother and father would be proud of you. They wouldn’t be. Ma would have prayed nightly for you, and Dad would have slapped you down to the ground for what you’ve become. You’re a common thief, a treacherous schemer, a cheat, and now a murderer. You’re a disgrace to our parents’ good names. I’m glad they’re dead so they don’t have to see this.”

  “Why…you hypocrite!” Clint sputtered the words. “You were nothin’ but a goddamn paid gunfighter for years. I dragged you out of the gutter and made you what you are.”

  “I was never in the gutter, Clint. And yes, I hired my gun. But I never shot a man who wasn’t facing me with a Colt in his hand or in his holster. And I never bushwhacked or drew first. Like Jensen, I never had to. And I never harmed a child, or a woman, or killed anyone’s pet dog or cat or horse for meanness. Like you’ve done more than once.”

  “I don’t need a damn sermon from you!”

  “I was proud to come be the law in Blackstown, Clint. Chest-swellin’ proud. My little brother had made it big. I was so proud of you. I just didn’t know at the time how you made it. Then I finally pieced it all together and found out it was by lying and cheating and stealing and…” He swallowed hard. “I reckon by murder too. But you kept me out of that. ’Cause you knew I wouldn’t stand for it. You dragged my name down in the filth with you, Clint. But I stood by and let you do it. ’Cause we’re brothers, I reckon. But this tears it, brother. This is the end of it.”