“Nelson’s right about that,” Clements said. “Jensen was a-layin’ right on the ground, right there in full open. And we didn’t see him. You boys be careful. We’re dealin’ with an Injun here.”
Clint was outwardly calm. Inside he was seething. He managed to ask, “Either of you men see Bankston?”
“No, sir,” Nelson said. “But we seen his horse grazin’, saddle and bridle was gone.”
Clint turned to walk back to his house and his hat was blown off his head by a .44-40 slug. The man hit the ground belly down and got a mouth full of dirt.
Smoke had carried five Winchester .44 rifles to his position on a ridge near the big house—rifles taken from Circle 45 hands. They were loaded up full, giving him awesome firepower before he had to think about reloading. He laid down his .44-40 and picked up one of the .44s and began spraying the area below him with lead. He sent Circle 45 hands and hired gunslicks scrambling in all directions in the fading light of early evening. Smoke put ninety-five rounds of .44s into the house, the bunkhouses, and the outhouses before it was all over.
He put lead so close to sprawled Circle 45 men they could feel the heat of the bullets. He could have killed a dozen men that day, but chose not to kill or really injure anyone. But he made life miserable for those below the ridge.
He knocked out windows in the house and the bunkhouse. He perforated doors and stove pipes and punched holes in the roofs of buildings. His bullets smashed water buckets and the fancy chandelier that hung in the dining room of Clint Black’s big house. The lead from his rifles clanged into cook pots, off of the stove, and into the outbuildings of the Circle 45. He poured lead into the gate posts of the corral and knocked the gate loose, stampeding the horses. Several of the panicked horses ran over men sprawled in the dirt, putting them out of action for days.
When darkness covered the land, Smoke left the empty rifles on the ridge and in a distance-covering run, vanished into the night. Clint Black rose wearily from the ground and walked to his house. He sank down to the steps and sat there, looking at the hole in his expensive hat.
A gunfighter called L. J. McBride picked himself up from the floor of the bunkhouse and began gathering his possibles, stuffing them into a bag.
“You leavin’?” another gunny asked.
“You better believe it,” L. J. said. “I read Jensen’s message loud and clear.”
“What message?” Cleon asked.
“Man, he could have killed twelve or fifteen men from up there on that ridge. But he didn’t. He tellin’ us if we wanna live, we better fly. I’m flyin’.”
“You just hold on and I’ll ride with you,” another hired gun said. “Smoke Jensen is a one-man war party. And this is one party that I’m skippin’.”
“You gonna turn your backs on that five thousand dollars?”
“Five thousand won’t help you if you’re in a grave, partner. I ain’t never seen no armored bank wagon followin’ a hearse.”
Sheriff Harris Black and one of his deputies made the Double D in time for breakfast the next morning…just the way they’d planned it.
Over coffee, Harris said, “Talked to three gunnies last night. They stopped in town for a drink before riding on. Seems that some unknown rifleman’s been doing all sorts of mischief out at the Circle 45.” The sheriff had to smile. Then the smile changed to a chuckle. “Seems this feller burned down the back porch, tossed firecrackers into the bunkhouse, shot up some outhouses, and in general made life pretty mean for my brother and his hired guns. Is your husband around, Mrs. Jensen?”
“Why, no, Sheriff. He isn’t. He’s off on a business trip.”
“Looks like it’s a successful one,” Harris replied. “Ammunition factories are going to be operating around the clock if this keeps up.”
“Supply and demand, Sheriff,” Sally said with a smile. “That’s what keeps the economy strong.”
Just as she was saying that, a horrified Bankston, still tied to the tree, watched as a passing parade of skunks paused a few feet from him, turned their backs to him, and lifted their tails.
“Oh, no!” the hired gun said, just as the skunks fired.
20
“We found Bankston,” Jud told Clint. “We drew straws to see who’d cut him loose. Fatso lost.”
“What are you talking about?”
Jud explained.
“Where is he now?”
“Down at the crick, washing, for all the good it’ll do him. Them skunks scored direct hits, Clint. It was so bad Fatso got sick.”
Clint pointed his cigar at his foreman. “Let me tell you something, Jud. I don’t like jokes being played on me. Jensen thinks this is funny. But I’m not laughing. The man is not only making a fool out of me, but you and the men as well. You think about that and pass the word to the boys.”
Clint watched his foreman’s face and saw a scowl form amid the bruises from the rake handle. “I didn’t look at it like that, Clint. But you’re right. What do you want the boys to do?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. I feel like I’m a prisoner on my own land. Damn Smoke Jensen!”
Stony handed Sally the note from the horse’s mane and she read it and smiled. “He’s fine. And having fun.”
“Fun?” the cowboy said. “Fun?”
“Yes. It’s only a few lines, but I sense that he doesn’t want to kill unless he’s forced into it. He’s trying to demoralize Clint’s hands.”
“I, ah, ain’t real sure what that means, Miss Sally.”
“He’s trying to get them to quit.”
“Oh. He ought to just plug everyone he sees. That’s the best way I know of to get them to quit.”
“It might come to that, Stony. But I hope not. There has been far too much bloodshed already.”
“Clint ain’t gonna quit, ma’am. I know the man. He’ll fight to the bitter end.”
“Then the man is a fool,” Sally said.
“Yes, ma’am,” the cowboy replied. “I reckon he is. But a dangerous fool. I hope your man ain’t takin’ him too lightly.”
“Oh, I assure you, Stony. My husband is taking Mr. Black very seriously.”
Smoke shifted his camp, moving much closer to the home of Clint. He lay on a ridge in heavy brush and watched the grounds through binoculars. Someone had rigged a tent about two hundred yards from the bunkhouse and Smoke couldn’t figure out what in the world it was for. Only one man was staying in the tent and Smoke recognized him as the man he’d tied up in the woods. Every time he tried to leave the tent area, the others would curse and wave and shout him back.
“Strange,” Smoke muttered. “Very odd behavior. Maybe the man has measles or something.”
Taking a longer look, Smoke could see that few hands had left the ranch grounds. They had rounded up their stampeded horses—most of them anyway—and the corral was full. Clint had called a halt to the search and was making plans. And he’d do it much more carefully than before. Smoke had stung the man and he’d be smarting from the sting. Smoke suddenly had a hunch that he had overstayed his welcome and it just might be time to get gone from Circle 45 range. The more he thought about it, the better that idea sounded to him. He gathered up his gear and headed back to friendlier territory.
He spent that night in a cold camp sleeping under the stars. He woke up just one time. But it was only a bear rooting and grunting around. Smoke stayed awake long enough to hear the bear’s sounds fade away, and then he went back to sleep.
He was back at the Double D at noon the next day. He’d have to make a new pair of moccasins, for the ones he had on were nearly worn out.
After a bath and a shave and a change into fresh clothing, he told the others what he’d done.
Everyone got a kick out of it, especially about the hand trapped in the outhouse and about Smoke blowing Clint’s hat off his head.
“But,” Smoke told the group, “while I did have some fun at Clint’s expense, he’s not going to let it rest. He’ll never forgive me for ter
rorizing his home and for making a fool of him. I don’t know what he’ll do next. But you can bet it won’t be anything nice.”
“We need to go into town for supplies,” Sally told him. “We’re running low on nearly everything.”
“Make a list, get the wagons ready, and we’ll go in tomorrow morning,” Smoke said. “We’ll take four men with us; the rest of you stay here and keep watch. We’re not prisoners on the spread. If Clint or his men are in town and want trouble, I’ll damn sure oblige them.”
They were, and he did.
The Circle 45 hands were in no mood for fun and games; they were still smarting over the antics of Smoke Jensen. Tucker and Longman could not pull boots on over their mangled and swollen feet. A half a dozen Circle 45 riders had just disappeared without a trace. Several others had ridden back to the bunkhouse, collected their gear, and left, a couple without even staying around to get their pay. A man couldn’t get within fifty feet of Bankston, he still smelled so bad. So it was a trouble-hunting bunch that waited in Blackstown that morning.
Sheriff Harris Black and all but one of his deputies had been called out of town to help to chase down two men who had robbed and murdered an elderly farmer and his wife the night before. It was a nervous deputy who watched the Double D people come in from one direction and the knot of Circle 45 hands ride in from the other. Lucas stepped back into the office and took a sawed-off from the rack, breaking it open and loading it up with buckshot—or what passed for buckshot in those days, usually nails and tacks and ball bearings and sometimes small rocks.
“Well now,” Tex Mason said. “Would you just look who’s ridin’ in.”
“I see them,” Weldon Ball said. He stood by his horse, looking over the saddle. “We play this right and we got Jensen cold.”
“Let’s let them get all spread out. Some of them boys will stay with the women, guardin’ them. John, you and Ballard go with Weldon. Art, you and Fatso stay with me. Austin, you take Cantrell and Miller. If we play this right, we can end it today and ride out with money in our pockets.”
“Yeah,” Austin said. “If we put Smoke Jensen down, we can name our price from here on out.”
“We’ll have a drink and let them get started doin’ their business,” Weldon said. “Then we’ll make our move. Stay loose and ready.”
“I think it’s gonna pop this day,” Stony said, swinging down from the saddle in front of Hanlon’s Emporium. They all, out of long habit, freed the hammers of their six-shooters. “That bunch of no-counts ain’t taken their eyes off us.”
“Check your guns,” Smoke ordered the men. Stony, Malvern, Waymore, and Eli checked their guns and loaded up the empty chamber. “See how they’re standing? There’ll be three groups of them. Watch yourselves. Sally, you and the twins get inside the store and take your time shopping. Stay clear of the windows.”
Smoke paused for a moment, standing by his horse. “Waymore, you and Malvern pull the wagons around to the rear of the store. Let’s get our horses off the street while we’re at it.” Smoke walked down to the sheriff’s office. He pushed open the door and told Lucas, “Pass the word to get the women and kids off the streets, Deputy. I think it’s going to explode this day. Where’s Harris?”
“Him and the others are out chasing a double murderer. And it’s no joke this time.”
“All right. Lucas, we’re not going to open this ball. But when the music starts, we won’t be wallflowers about hitting the dance floor.”
“I understand. I’ll start spreadin’ the word.”
Within minutes, the street was cleared of horseflesh and humans. The sun beat down; already it was a hot day. A wind devil spun around in the center of the street, then vanished, whirling like a dervish. Dr. Garrett began laying out bandages and instruments.
Smoke and the Double D hands had fanned out, all up and down the street. They stood in the shadows of buildings and alleyways and watched and waited. Inside the saloon, the Circle 45 hired guns were sipping rye, working up their courage to try to do what so many others had attempted and failed. To kill the legendary Smoke Jensen.
A drifting cowboy rode slowly into town. He stopped at the edge of town and took in the scene. Nothing was moving. Not a horse or man, woman, or kid in sight. Even the dogs had cleared the street. He turned into the livery and swung down.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he questioned the hostler.
“The Double D hands and the Circle 45 riders are gettin’ ready to settle some old scores.”
“Who’s your money on?”
“Let’s put it this way: the Double D is bein’ bossed by Smoke Jensen.”
“Smoke Jensen!” the cowboy exclaimed. “Here?”
“Durn sure is. In the flesh. You’d be showin’ some smarts if you just stood right here ’til this is over.”
“I ain’t never been known to be real bright,” the cowboy said. “I think I’ll go find Mr. Jensen and ask for a job.”
“Now?”
But the cowboy was gone, walking up the boardwalk. He stopped at an alleyway and grinned at Waymore.
“Git in here, Conny,” Waymore said. “You damn fool. I thought you was lookin’ at the rear end of cows down in Kansas?”
“I quit ’em after me and the foreman had a slight disagreement.”
“You mean, you punched him in the mouth and he fired you.”
Conny grinned. “Yeah. After he beat the stuffin’s out of me.”
“You never did have no sense. What happened?”
“He called me a bad name and I busted him on the nose. Your boss hirin’?”
“Now I know you ain’t got no sense. You know who’s ramrodin’ this outfit?”
“Man down at the stable told me.”
“And you still want to sign on?”
“Why not?”
“Now I’m sure you’re crazy. Yeah, as a matter of fact, we could use another hand or two. You got a horse?”
“How the hell do you think I got here from Kansas—walked?”
Before he could reply, boots sounded on the boardwalk. “Yonder comes the boss,” Waymore said.
Conny whistled softly. “He sure is a big’un, ain’t he?”
“And hell on wheels with them guns.” He waited until Smoke had calmly strolled up as if on a Sunday walk. “Boss, this here terrible-lookin’ saddle bum is Conny. He ain’t to be trusted around food nor whiskey, and he likes to fight—even though he don’t never win—but he can ride anything with hair on it and he’ll give you a good day’s work. He needs a job.”
Smoke smiled and shook hands with the man. “You’re hired. Can you use that gun you’re wearing?”
“I ain’t no fast gun. But I generally hit what I’m shootin’ at.”
“You’re stepping into the middle of a war. I want you to know that up front.”
“If you’re fightin’ that damn Clint Black, I’d ride for nothin’ but bunk and board.”
“Don’t hire him on them terms, Boss.” Waymore said. “He can eat more’n any two men you ever seen.”
Smoke chuckled. “You’re a pretty good hand at the table yourself, Waymore. All right, Conny. Clint’s hired a lot of gunhands. Some of them are pretty good. He’s got nine men in town right now. Including Weldon Ball, Tex Mason, and Austin Charles. They’re all over at the saloon. We wait for them to start the show.”
“It’s a good thing I ain’t eat in a day,” Conny said. “Eatin’ makes me sleepy.”
“If that was the truth you’d be asleep all the time,” Waymore remarked. “You ridin’ the line, Conny?”
“I ain’t got a dime to my name.”
Smoke handed the puncher a twenty-dollar gold piece. “That might make you feel better.”
“Durn sure does, Boss,” Conny said, pocketing the money. “Now if them bad’uns over there will just get this party goin’, we can get it over with and I can get me something to eat ’fore I fall over from the hungries.”
“You better get you some boots first,” Wa
ymore told him. “I can see your dirty socks on both feet.”
“Conny,” Smoke said, after looking at the cowboy for a moment. “You stay here with me for a moment. Waymore, use the alleys and tell the boys to move this thing to the edge of town. Up next to the bridge. I don’t want a stray bullet to kill some innocent person.”
“Right, boss.”
“Conny. You follow Waymore and stop in at the general store and get you a hunk of cheese and a handful of crackers. You’re staggering on your feet, man. How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?”
Conny grinned. “Several days, boss. It just ain’t in me to beg. And times is hard out here.”
“All right. Go get something to eat and meet me behind the store in a few minutes.”
Smoke gave Conny enough time to reach the store; then he rolled a cigarette and smoked it down, always keeping his eyes on the saloon batwings. There was no sign of the Circle 45 hands. Smoke ground out the butt with the toe of his boot and walked up the alley. Conny was sitting on the loading dock, wolfing down a huge sandwich and drinking a bottle of sarsaparilla. The puncher grinned at him. He was missing two front teeth, and Smoke suspected they’d been knocked out in a brawl.
“After three of these sandwiches, I could take on a mama bear with cubs,” Conny said.
“Three!” Smoke said.
“I eat quick when they’s shootin’ to be done.”
Sally appeared at the back. “I’m laying in extra supplies,” she said with a smile. “Your new hand can put away the food.”
Smoke shook his head and Conny brushed a few crumbs off his patched shirt and drained the sarsaparilla. He checked his Colt and loaded up the empty chamber. He hopped off the loading dock. “Now let’s go see your varmint, boss.”
As they walked, Smoke brought Conny up to date.
“I know Clint Black,” Conny said. “He’s as lowdown as they come. No mercy or feelin’s for nobody in him. If you have to shoot a rabid animal, you’re scared of it, but you can feel sorry for it. ’Cause he didn’t want the disease. But I could shoot Clint Black or Jud Howes and not feel nothin’. I tried to work for them. Man, I can’t harm no woman or child. Until farmers just got so many around here, there wasn’t no stoppin’ them, Clint burned out and killed many of them. I worked one week for him and then hauled my ashes. And don’t feel sorry for no hand that hires on with the Circle 45. After they’ve been there a week, they know what’s goin’ on.”
Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man Page 42