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

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke looked at the two young man. Clint Black had to be one of the sorriest excuses for a human being he had ever run up against. He had never met a man who didn’t have any redeeming qualities—until now. “You boys toss your kit in the bunkhouse and get ready for supper. My wife’s cooking tonight, so it’s gonna be good.”

  “Mr. Jensen…ah, Smoke,” Eli said. “Did your wife really strap on a pistol and take up a rifle and ride with you to help you out of a jam some months back?”

  Smoke chuckled in the fading light of day. “She sure did. She was born back east to a wealthy family, but that lady can ride and shoot as good as any man. Better than most. It isn’t wise to cross her. Bear that in mind.”

  The young cowboys solemnly nodded their heads. Davy asking, “Can she cook as good as she shoots?”

  Smoke patted him on the back. “Better, Davy.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Davy said. “Eli, I think we done found us a home.”

  16

  That same night, while the townspeople slept, the new First United Bank of Blackstown was robbed and the whole back of the building blown out with dynamite. But Smoke had suspected something like that might happen and had brought in other workmen from back East to build a second safe in the ground under the building, accessible by a trap door which was covered by a rug. The Circle 45 hands made a clean getaway and beat it back to the ranch, taking a roundabout route.

  When the Circle 45 hands ripped open the bank bags to count their loot, they found washers at the bottom of the sacks and stacks of worthless old Confederate money in place of greenbacks.

  Clint was not amused.

  “Burn all that crap,” he ordered his men, pointing to the worthless money. “Save the washers, we might need them around the place. Two dollars worth of washers. Jesus!’”

  Yukon Golden, who had absolutely no reason at all to like Smoke Jensen, found the whole thing funny. Back in the bunkhouse, he said, “This deck is stacked, boys. I felt it when I first rode into town. This thing is windin’ down to be a bloody mess, I’m thinkin’.”

  Bronco Ford cut hard eyes to the man. “You thinkin’ about haulin’ your ashes, Yukon?”

  “No. I took the man’s money, so I’ll stay. But there ain’t gonna be no good end to this. You mark my words.”

  “What do you mean?” Tex Mason asked.

  “Well, I been hearin’ talk that Clint has plans on treein’ the town.”

  “There ain’t nobody ever treed no Western town,” Weldon Ball said. “And there ain’t nobody ever gonna do it. That’s a fool’s game.”

  Grub Carson said, “I seen it tried a time or two. Man, them townspeople shot them ol’ boys all to pieces. Most awfulest thing I ever seen.”

  Slim King looked over at him. “Look what happened when Jesse James tried to rob that town over in Minnesota back a few years. They shore got their comeuppance there.”

  “I ain’t attemptin’ to tree no whole town,” Austin Charles said, summing up the feelings of all the newly hired guns, “’Cause it can’t be done.” He finished rolling a cigarette and added, “And I agree with Yukon. I think this deck is stacked against us. It’s one thing goin’ in an’ runnin’ out nester trash or shootin’ sheepmen. Used to be no one give a damn about them. But times is changin’.”

  The men in the bunkhouse had all fallen silent, listening to Austin.

  “I ain’t sayin’ our day has come and gone,” Austin continued. “But it ain’t gonna be too many more years ’fore jobs like this one will be hard to come by. And when that day comes, we’re gonna have to start doin’ more thinkin’ and less shootin’.”

  “What do you mean?” a hand asked.

  “Plannin’ things out, is what I mean. This night ridin’ hell for leather and shootin’ everything that moves is damn near a thing of the past. As long as the jobs is like this one, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, we can get away with it. Telegraph wires is everywhere. And I seen a machine that lets people talk to one another from miles away. It’s scary.”

  “You ain’t neither seen no machine like that!” a Circle 45 hand sneered at him.

  Austin cut his eyes. “Don’t be callin’ me no liar, boy. I seen it. It’s called a telephone. Lots of cities has them.”

  “I heard of ’em,” Cleon said. “How do they work?”

  “I don’t know. Spooky, I say,” Austin replied. “We’re gettin’ away from what I was talkin’ about. Now let’s face facts, boys: we ain’t gonna whip Jensen with guns. Not unless we back-shoot him and that ain’t my style. We got to use our heads in this.”

  “You ain’t runnin’ this show,” Fatso Ross reminded him. “Clint is. I don’t take orders from you; I take orders from Clint.”

  “For a fact,” Austin said, taking no umbrage at the words. “For a fact.”

  Smoke rode into town early in the morning. Most of the businesses were not yet open. He had awakened with a feeling that this day would be eventful; that this day would mark the turning point in this high country war. And Smoke had long ago learned to play his hunches. He had left the ranch before dawn, and his stomach was telling him he had missed breakfast. His eyes were busy, moving from side to side, but he could see nothing to give cause for alarm. He stabled his horse and entered the cafe. He was the only customer. Smoke ordered breakfast and a pot of coffee. He watched as Doc Garrett walked slowly up the boardwalk and stepped into the cafe. The man looked weary.

  “Mind if I join you, Mr. Jensen?” the doctor inquired.

  “The name is Smoke. Please sit down, Doctor You look like you’re about ready to fall down from exhaustion.”

  The man smiled. “Twins, Smoke. It was a hard delivery. But mother and babies are doing fine. No trouble last night from Clint?”

  “No. But there will be today.”

  The doctor smiled as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Can you predict the future, Smoke?”

  “I play my hunches, Doctor. It’s something I learned from mountain men. We’re all born with that ability. You just have to work to develop it. It comes in very handy when danger is all around you.”

  “And what kind of trouble will be coming your way this day, Smoke?”

  “Guns,” he said softly. The sounds of hammering reached the cafe. The workmen were up early, repairing the rear of the new bank building.

  The waitress took the doctor’s order as more people entered the cafe, their faces still lumpy from sleep. They wanted no conversation until they’d had their coffee. They nodded at Smoke and the doctor, and the nods were returned.

  The blacksmith came in and ordered a huge stack of flapjacks. “The sheriff and his deputies rode out early this morning,” he told the waitress. “Seems like some fellers tried to rob the stage and they was headed this way. The news come in over the wires late last night.”

  “Set up,” Smoke spoke very low. “Five will get you ten that one of Clint’s men jumped the wires and sent that message to suck Harris and his deputies out of town.”

  “To attack this town?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No. That would be very foolish. They’re coming after me.”

  “You don’t think they might attack the Double D?”

  Again, Smoke shook his head. “No. That’s coming. I’m certain of that. But not yet. Clint wants me out of this game first. And he wants people to see me go down. He thinks that will put the fear back in them. But he’s wrong.” He looked over at the smithy. “How far out of town did this attempted robbery take place?”

  “Harris said they was goin’ as far as Slater’s Pass. That’s a pretty fair piece out. I ’spect they’ll be gone most of the day.”

  Smoke thanked him as the waitress put his plate in front of him and Smoke concentrated on eating his breakfast. The doctor did not attempt to engage him in conversation while eating. Eating was serious business for many a Western man. Soon the doctor was busy working on his own food.

  “Well, bless Pete,” a man said, looking up from his eggs. “Would you t
ake a look at them two.”

  Smoke looked up and saw them. He silently cussed. He didn’t know the two young men, but he was very familiar with the type. Young trouble-hunters out to make a reputation. They had heard he was in town, and here they came.

  The smithy turned around, looked, and snorted. “Pearl-handled six-shooters, fancy rigs and boots. All decked out. Young toughs.”

  Smoke ate his breakfast, poured another cup of coffee, and waited. He watched as the trouble-hunters stepped up onto the boardwalk across the street and asked a man something. The citizen pointed to the cafe and Smoke sighed. It was down to minutes now.

  “Am I missing something here?” Doc Garrett asked, looking at the expression on Smoke’s face.

  “A couple of young trouble-hunters heading this way. Probably looking for me.”

  The doctor turned and looked at them. “Not more that twenty-one or two at the most.”

  “But they’re wearing guns,” Smoke told him. “Out here, Doc, when you strap on a gun, that makes you a man.”

  “How will you handle this?”

  “That all depends on those two would-be gunslicks. Try to talk my way out of it if they’ll let me.”

  The door opened and the young men swaggered in, trying to look tough. They managed to look pathetic. But Smoke had noticed they had taken the hammer thongs off their guns. The pair looked around the large room, their eyes settling on Smoke. Smoke was sipping his coffee and seemingly not paying any attention to them.

  “You boys take a seat,” the waitress called from the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Shake a leg there, baby,” one of them called. “You got the Shawnee Kid and Hawk Evans in here.”

  Smoke shook his head in disgust.

  “The only thing that’s gonna be shakin’ around here is your butts when I kick you out of here,” the cook said, stepping out of the kitchen. “You watch your mouths around my wife, you hear me?”

  “Shawnee,” his partner said. “I think that feller’s threatenin’ us.”

  “Sounds like it, don’t it? Maybe we ought to pin his ears back some?”

  Smoke sat the coffee cup on the table.

  “Oh, my!” Evans said. “But we got the world-famous Smoke Jensen in here, Shawnee. The cook might be a friend of his. Don’t that scare you?”

  “Why…I’m tremblin’ in my boots just at the thought of Mr. Smoke Jensen. Tell you what, Hawk, maybe we ought to ride out to the Circle 45 and tell Clint Black that we’ll take care of his little problem with Jensen. That is, if we can get Jensen away from that coffee pot.”

  “If you boys have a problem,” Smoke told them, finally turning his head to look at the pair, “I think it would be wise to carry it somewhere else. This is the wrong town to start trouble in.”

  “Because of you, Mr. Hotshot Gunfighter?” Hawk sneered at him.

  “That’s part of it,” Smoke told him.

  “What’s the other part?” Shawnee asked.

  “Actually there is more than one. They got the loneliest graveyard I have ever seen in any town. I’d hate to know I had to spend eternity on that hill.”

  “What’s the other part?” Hawk asked.

  “The cook has a double-barreled shotgun pointed right at your guts.”

  Both of their mouths dropped open and they jerked their heads toward the rear. Smoke left his chair like a striking snake and ran into the pair, knocking them sprawling. One jerked out a 45 and Smoke kicked it out of his hand. Whirling, he backhanded the other one just as he was crawling to his knees, the blow catching him on the side of the head and knocking him back to the floor. Smoke ripped the gun belts from them and hung them on a peg.

  “Now stand up,” he said in a very low and menacing voice. When they were slow in doing so, he shouted, “Stand up, damnit!”

  They scrambled to their feet and faced him. Smoke stepped closer to the one called Shawnee. “Draw,” he told him.

  “Draw what?”

  “Pretend you’re drawing. Maybe this is the only way I can keep you alive and get you back home safely. Draw, damnit!”

  Shawnee’s elbow was just bending when Smoke’s .44 leaped into the young man’s face.

  “Jesus Christ!” Evans said.

  Sweat was pouring down Shawnee’s face, even though the morning had dawned very cool for summer.

  “You get the message, Shawnee?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes…sir. I mean, yes sir!”

  Smoke cut his eyes to Evans. “How about you?”

  “Real plain, Mr. Jensen.”

  “Fine. Now you boys sit down and order you some breakfast. After you’ve eaten, ride back home, wherever home is, and forget about being gunfighters. The trails are long, the food is terrible, the company you keep is awful, the life expectancy is short, and the pay isn’t worth a damn. Breakfast is on me, boys. Now sit down and eat.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison, and sat. Evans looked up at Jensen and smiled. “The cook ain’t holdin’ no shotgun, Mr. Jensen.”

  Smoke returned the smile. “I lied.”

  Smoke returned to his own table and the waitress brought him a fresh pot of coffee. She smiled and said in a whisper, “You could have killed them both and nobody would have blamed you.”

  “Ten years ago, I would have,” Smoke told her.

  “For a man of your size, you’re devilishly quick, Smoke,” the doctor said.

  “It pays to be with the name I’ve got hung on me.”

  “Circle 45 riders coming in,” a man called from a table by the window.

  The doctor stared at Smoke. “I was planning on going home and getting a few hours’ sleep this morning.”

  “I think it’s going to get busy around here this morning,” Smoke said, shoving back his chair. “You’d better plan on an afternoon’s nap.”

  17

  Smoke walked outside while some of the cafe’s patrons exited by the back door, heading for home to make sure their wives and kids stayed off the streets. Hawk Evans and the Shawnee Kid sat at their table and stared out the window. Both of them knew that from this point on, they would never again strap on a gun. Dr. Garrett looked at the two young men, staring wide-eyed at Smoke, then turned his chair around so he could see what was taking place in the street.

  Smoke knew only one of the men who had ridden in, a two-bit gunhandler who went by the name of Earl Cobb. He knew none of the others. He watched as they reined in and swung down, looping the reins on the hitchrail in front of the saloon. They turned and faced him.

  The cork is out of the bottle now, Smoke thought. They aren’t even trying to conceal the reason they came to town. Clint must have upped the ante.

  The quartet of gunhands spread out.

  Smoke backed up and entered the cafe. “They don’t care that innocent people might be hit by a bullet,” he said to Doc Garrett. “I won’t have it this way.” He paused by the hat rack and took two of the guns belonging to the young men. “I’ll return these in a few minutes,” he said to the pair.

  “Keep them,” Evans said. “We won’t be needing them no more.”

  Smoke walked through the kitchen, a borrowed pistol in each hand. The cook, who was the owner, said, “I’ve got a rifle here, Smoke.”

  “Stay out of this. I’m going to pull them away from your cafe and try to get them off the main street. People are all over the place opening up for business.”

  He went out the back door and ran two blocks down to the livery stable. He cut right and stepped out into the street. He was a good two hundred yards from the gunmen, who were standing in the middle of the street in front of the cafe.

  “Hey!” Smoke called, stepping closer to the other side of the street where there were two abandoned buildings at the edge of town. “You jerks looking for me?”

  Earl Cobb cussed at the distance between them. “Come on,” he said to the others. “Jensen’s tryin’ to get us away from the main drag so’s no citizen will take lead.”

  “Ain
’t he sweet?” another said.

  “He’s liable to take up preachin’ ’fore long,” another added.

  Smoke was standing by the corner of what had once been a general store.

  “Split up,” Earl said. “Luddy, you come with me. Dick, Patton, you cut through that alley and come up behind him.”

  When he looked up again, Smoke had vanished.

  Many of the townspeople had armed themselves. But since Smoke had pulled the action to the edge of town, where no businesses or houses stood, they could not leave their families unprotected. Most knew Smoke had done that deliberately.

  “Jensen, you damn yellow cur,” Dick called. “Step out here and fight.”

  “All right,” Smoke said as he stepped out of a doorway behind the two men. “Here I am.”

  The men were lifting their guns as they turned to meet what their fates had long ago planned for them. The borrowed .45s in Smoke Jensen’s hands roared and spat fire and lead and gunsmoke. Patton and Dick were down in the litter behind the old building.

  “Nice action on these pistols,” Smoke muttered, as he kicked the guns of the fallen men away from them and stepped back into the building. He had checked the pistols in the cafe and knew they had been loaded up full. He had fired four times and had put two slugs apiece in Patton and Dick.

  Smoke had no illusions about fair fighting. The old mountain man Preacher had grilled that out of him. He never gave a damn for fair; he fought to win. “You always do your best to do right by the good folks of this world, boy,” Preacher had told him repeatedly. “To hell with the bad folks. Man comes after you with intent to do you harm, you fight him any damn way you can…just win.”

  Luddy rounded a corner of the building and Smoke fired through a windowless frame. The slug hit the hired gun in the shoulder and knocked him down, the big shoulder joint smashed. Luddy lay on the ground and flopped and hollered in pain, his gun hand useless.

  Smoke stepped out of the building just as Earl began pouring lead through the thin walls. He worked his way up the alley and stepped out to the edge of the street just as Earl was jerking out a spare gun he’d tucked behind his belt.