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

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’ll face your brother anywhere he picks. Guns or fists; doesn’t make any difference to me.”

  “Yeah,” Harris said, a weariness in his tone. “I know that, too. But he’s not going to do that. Not yet. But Jud was right when he said that one of us will have to kill him.”

  “Could you?” Smoke asked softly.

  Harris met his eyes. “If he braces me and pulls? You and me, Smoke, we’re gunfighters. You know that reflex would take over. I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d be sick afterward, but I wouldn’t stand there and let him kill me.”

  “You through with me?”

  “I wish,” Harris said, softening that with a smile. “Oh, yeah. Someday there’ll be laws out here against men settling arguments with guns. But that day is a long way off. Watch your back ridin’ home, Smoke.”

  “I always do, Harris.”

  “Joe Owens seen Bronco Ford flaggin’ down the stage this afternoon,” Stony reported to Smoke after supper. “Headin’ for Helena.”

  “He’s gone to get more men. I expected it. Jud said that’s what Clint would do.”

  “Jud’s really gone?”

  “He talked to the sheriff and me and then I watched him ride out, leading a packhorse. Said he didn’t like me at all. But yes, he’s gone for good.”

  Stony slowly shook his head. “I reckon stranger things has happened.”

  Conny asked, “So what do we do now?”

  “Look after the herd, mend fences, and stay out of trouble. In about a week, we’ll have all the trouble we can handle. I want one man in town at all times, starting tomorrow. By this time, Bronco has sent his wires and men will be coming in, some of them by stage. The last stage runs at three, so that’ll give the men time to get back here for supper. I want to know who comes in and how many. The men Bronco will hire will be known gunfighters, easy to spot, and he’ll probably hire at least one long-distance shooter, too.”

  “A lousy damn back-shooter,” Conny said contemptuously. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m surprised Clint hasn’t done that already.”

  “He just hasn’t thought of it. But Bronco will. For sure, he’ll pick up two or three or maybe more in Helena. And there’ll be some hanging around Butte. It won’t take long for them to get here. Tell the men who ride in not to brace any of these ol’ boys. Bronco will be hiring professionals. And they’ll be quick on the shoot.”

  “That back-shooter will be coming in for you, boss,” Stony said.

  “It’s been tried before,” Smoke told him. “I’m still around. You boys relax while you can. In a few days, it’s going to get real tense around here.”

  The first of the hired guns arrived three days after Bronco sent the wires. Waymore described them to Smoke. “The first one is a bad hombre called Tall Mosley. He comes high. The redhead is a Irishman named Danny O’Brian. Danny came from a real nice family down in Southern Colorado. He went bad early. Killed his brother and left the country. He’s left a lot of dead men behind him. I can’t place the other one you described.”

  “I heard him called Ned in the saloon.”

  “Ned Burr. He’d make Sam Bass look like a Baptist preacher.”

  The following day, Conny reported back. He looked shaken. “Man, some bad ones come in this day. I seen Luke Jennings, Little John Perkins and Tom Wiley. Half a dozen more I didn’t know, but they looked right capable.”

  “You catch any names?” Smoke asked, marveling at the man’s ability with a knife and fork. His elbows never stopped working.

  “Yeah. There was a Dan, a fellow called Rod, and one other name that sounded familiar: Morton.”

  “Might be Dan Hutton. Rod is short for Rodman; I don’t know his first name. Morton is probably Henry Morton. They’re all bad ones. Clint is hiring the best, or the worst, depending upon how you look at it.”

  The next day, Stony reported back shaking his head. “Boss, we got to hire some hands. Gunhands. You ain’t never seen the like of what rode in this day. I heard ’em talkin’. Clint wired ’em money to ride the trains in and money to buy fine horses when they got to the gittin’ off point. And they was all dressed up fancy.” He began ticking them off on his fingers. “James Otis. Paul Stark. Ed Burke. Tom Lessing. Hal Bruner. Big Dan Barrington. Half a dozen more that I didn’t know.”

  “Rider comin’, boss,” Jeff called.

  Smoke stood on the porch and shielded his eyes. Then he smiled. “Well, I’ll be double-damned.”

  “You know that feller, boss?” Tim asked.

  “Huggie Charles.”

  “Huggie Charles!” Malvern almost shouted the name. “The Arizona gunfighter?”

  “That’s him.”

  Smoke stepped off the porch as Huggie swung down from the saddle and beat the dust from his clothing. The two men grinned and shook hands.

  “You ol’ warhoss, you!” Huggie said. “Damn, but you’re lookin’ fine, boy.”

  “You’re looking fit and fine yourself, Huggie. Sally!” he called. “We’ve got company.”

  Sally came out on the porch and began smiling. She skipped down the steps and Huggie grabbed her. “Sally, girl. How you doin’, Missy?”

  “Now you boys see why he’s called Huggie,” Smoke said with a smile. “He never misses a chance to hug a woman. Slim or fat, tall or short, beautiful or so bad looking she’d stop an eagle in a dive, Huggie grabs them.”

  “It’s been too many years since you stopped by the Sugarloaf, Huggie,” Sally admonished the man. “Just too many years.”

  “Well, I got me a spread down on the Verde. I was up in Denver lookin’ for stock to improve my herd—Herefords are the way to go now—and I heard about all the trouble up here. Why I just saddled up and took to ridin’. Here I am.”

  “In time for supper, too.”

  “If you cooked it, honey, that in itself is worth the ride.”

  “Huggie!” Denver bellered from the porch. “You ol’ biscuit-stealin’ outlaw!”

  “My God, Smoke,” Huggie said with a grin. “What ever possessed you to hire something as dis-reputable as that ol’ coot? Me and him go back more years than either of us care to think about.”

  “Huggie’s got to be sixty years old,” Conny said to the hands gathered on the porch. “Or better. But I bet you he’s still quick with them guns. Look at them Peacemakers. If he carved notches there wouldn’t be no handles left.”

  Over supper, Huggie said, “Del Rovare is a day behind me. I told him what was happenin’ up here and he quick started windin’ up his business and he’ll be along.”

  “I haven’t laid eyes on Del since…why, it’s got to be before Nicole was murdered.”

  Those around the table fell silent as everybody remembered how Smoke Jensen went after the men who had molested and murdered his wife and son.

  “I come through that part of the country some years back, Smoke,” Huggie said. “That land is bein’ farmed by a real nice couple and they’re doin’ well. I told them the story of the graves. They musta come in right after you left. They been takin’ care of Nicole and the baby’s restin’ place. Flowers all the time around the graves.”

  Smoke nodded his head. “Good,” he said softly, then excused himself and walked out onto the porch.

  Conny started to rise to join him and Sally touched his arm. “No. Let him alone. Nicole and Smoke had a special relationship. Part of him will always belong to her memory. And that’s the way it should be. It was a terrible thing what those men did to her and a tiny baby.”

  “Did Smoke really stake one of them out over a big anthill and pour honey on him?” Ted asked.

  “Yes, he did. He also gelded another and cauterized the wound with a hot running iron.”

  Several of the cowboys suppressed a shudder at just the thought of that.

  “He must have been some riled up,” Conny said.

  “When my husband gets riled up, Conny,” Sally said, “believe me, you’ll know it.”

  By the end of the week, Smoke figured that all the
new-hired gunslicks that was coming in, were in. And the names were impressive. One-eyed Shaw, Curly Bob Kennedy, Stew Lee, Purdy Wilson, Phil Dickinson. There were other lesser-known gunhands, but all were good at their trade.

  Del Rovare had ridden in, looking about as old as God, but still rawhide tough, nimble, and very, very fast on the shoot. He owned a ranch down in Wyoming, the D/R brand. But when a friend was in trouble, Del buckled on his guns and saddled up for the ride.

  And it was rumored that Buckskin Deevers was on Clint’s payroll. If that was true, Clint had sunk to new lows, for Buckskin was just about as sorry as any man who ever lived. There was nothing he wouldn’t do.

  Smoke personally knew some of the gunhands that Clint had hired, and felt that if he could talk to them, a few might just pull out. With that thought in mind, Smoke rode into Blackstown one week after Jud Howes had pulled out and Bronco Ford had been named foreman at the Circle 45. The hitchrails in front of the saloon were lined with horses, some with brands Smoke had never seen, many wearing the Circle 45 brand. He paid a visit to Harris Black before heading for the saloon.

  “I was hoping my eyes were deceiving me,” the sheriff said. “But I might have known you couldn’t stay away from a fight.”

  Smoke smiled at the man and took a seat. “Actually, Harris, I came to town to talk to some of those men over there. I know a few of them.”

  “So you convince two or three of them to ride out. My brother will just hire more. What will you have accomplished?”

  “Why do I get the feeling that you are not in a real good mood?”

  “I got fifteen hired guns belly up to the bar over at the saloon. The word I get is that they’re under orders to shoot any Double D rider they see. I can’t prove that, but that’s the word I get from several sources, including the bartender, who is so scared of my brother he’d walk on fire before he’d testify to that in any court of law. Now you ride in just as bold as brass and tell me that you’re going over to that saloon to talk to some of those tanked-up hired guns. You’re right, Smoke. I’m not in a real good mood.”

  “Who’s over there, Harris?”

  “I don’t know all of them. But I did see Tall Mosley, Little John Perkins, and Paul Stark. I spent half the morning sendin’ out wires to sheriff’s offices all over the west. There isn’t a warrant out for any of them. Except for Buckskin Deevers and he isn’t about to show his face in town.”

  “Sheriff, I don’t want a lot of bullets flying around the main street of town. If you tell me to haul it out of here, I’ll leave without a word.”

  Harris shook his head. “I can’t do that. Hell, I won’t do that. But I tell you what I will do. I’ll walk over there with you. It’s right at noon and a cold beer would taste good before I grab something to eat.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Harris stood up, checked another pistol for loads, and shoved it behind his belt. He checked his other Colt and then smiled thinly at Smoke. “I believe in insurance. You loaded up six and six?”

  “I’m full.”

  “I think both of you are crazy!” Deputy Simpson said, moving to the gun rack. “Sheriff, you want any of us to come with you totin’ shotguns?”

  “No. Just stay handy in case the lead starts flyin’.”

  The men stepped out to the boardwalk and stood for a moment. “What does it say in the Bible about Daniel in the lion’s den?” Harris said.

  “I don’t know. But he made it out.”

  “Let’s hope we’ll be so lucky.”

  “I think God had something to do with Daniel getting out.”

  “I had a feeling a month ago I should start goin’ to church more often.”

  Smoke chuckled and stepped off the boardwalk, the sheriff right beside him. Citizens and shoppers started ducking inside buildings. The wide main street suddenly became deserted.

  23

  The two men pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the saloon, walking shoulder to shoulder. Once inside, from long habit, they moved apart. The place was filled to overflowing with gawkers, ne’er-do-wells, gamblers, and hired guns. The hum of conversation died as the two men were noticed.

  Smoke leaned against the wall and surveyed the situation through cool eyes, his gaze stopping at Tall Mosley. “Been a while, Tall.”

  “Several years, Smoke,” the long, lanky gunfighter said. “Down around Boulder Creek, I think it was.”

  “That’s right.” He shifted his eyes to Little John Perkins. “John.”

  “Jensen,” the little gunslick said. “You finally stuck your nose into something that you can’t handle, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, John. I’m still here.”

  Paul Stark turned and put his back to the bar. He stood smiling at Smoke. “Ain’t seen you in two-three years, Jensen. You lookin’ prosperous.”

  “I’m well.”

  “Your family?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “I heard your wife is here.”

  “Out at the Double D.”

  Paul’s smile was not pretty. He straightened and dropped his hands to the butts of his guns. “I been lookin’ forward to this. Ever since I first laid eyes on that wife of yours. When you’re cold in the ground, Jensen, I’ll lift the skirts of that pretty woman of yourn. I’ll strip her nekked and see how she likes it rough.”

  Smoke shot him. He did not change expression, nor blink an eye. He just pulled, cocked, and fired before anyone could move a muscle. The bullet took the gunfighter in the center of the chest and Paul Stark was dead before his butt hit the floor. No one saw when he pulled his second gun.

  “He had no right to say that about your wife,” a Circle 45 hired gun said. “I might be shootin’ at you ’fore long, Jensen. But I’ll not say a word about a good woman.”

  “Paul raped a woman down in New Mexico a couple of years ago,” another man said. “I never did have no use for him.”

  Smoke eased the hammers down on his .44s and a sigh could be heard from the crowd. A few of those who had witnessed the blinding speed and deadly accuracy of Smoke Jensen would finish their drinks and ride on. No amount of money was worth dying for.

  Tall and Little John and the others now knew how fast Jensen was. And several of the smarter ones knew he had come to town to show them. If it hadn’t been Paul Stark, it would have been one of them. The eyes of the hired guns widened as the batwings were pushed open and Huggie Charles and Del Rovare stepped in. These men were living legends in the West. Right up there with the old mountain man, Preacher. These two old gunhandlers rated up there with Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont and Johnny North and Earl Sutcliffe and the Mexican gunfighters, Al Martine and Carbone. What the hell was this pair of ol’ rattlesnakes doing here?

  “We always miss out on the fun,” Rovare said, his eyes on the stretched out Paul Stark.

  “Well, maybe it’s for the best,” Huggie said, stepping around Smoke and the Sheriff. “Man gets to our advanced age, too much excitement ain’t good for him.” A Circle 45 hand stood in his way. Huggie gave him a shove that nearly put him to the floor. “Get the hell out of the way, boy. Ain’t you got no respect for your elders?”

  “Who you think you’re shovin’ around, you old son of a bitch!” the punk popped off.

  Huggie slapped him. Huggie was not a young man, but he had worked hard all his life, and his arms and shoulders still were packed with muscle from spending years wrestling cattle. His hands were hard and callused and the blow rocked the young tough back on his bootheels and brought blood to his mouth. He reached for his guns.

  “No, Will!” Tall shouted. “That’s Huggie Charles.”

  “Who the hell is Huggie Charles?” the punk said, and dragged iron.

  Huggie shot him twice before the would-be tough could clear leather. The kid rose up on the tips of his boots and gasped, then fell forward, landing on his face. He moaned and rolled over, staring up at Huggie.

  “I’m Huggie Charles, boy,” the old gun
fighter told him. “A man ought to know who killed him.”

  “But I can’t die,” the young man said, both hands holding his shot-up belly.

  “That’s what you all think,” Del said, looking around the room. “But me and Huggie know different. Like Jensen here. A month from now, not a soul in this town will remember this boy’s name. Six months from now, the wooden cross will have begun to rot. A year from now, his grave site will be known only to God—or the devil.”

  “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a dyin’ man!” the punk said.

  Del looked down at him. “What’d you want me to say, congratulations?” He walked to the bar, Huggie beside him. “Rye, with beer chasers, for me and my friend.”

  The barkeep was so scared he could hardly pour and pull.

  Doc Garrett pushed in and knelt down beside the dying gunhand. He looked up at the sheriff. “Not a chance.”

  “But I can’t die!” the man hollered. “They said I was fast.”

  “They lied,” Smoke told him, then walked to the bar, stopped by Tall. “Get out of this one, Tall.” He spoke quietly, his elbows on the bar. “Go on back to where you came from.”

  “You got a couple of old gunslicks, ten or so punchers, and you’re tellin’ me to pull out? You ain’t got that many friends, Jensen.”

  The batwings were shoved open and heavy boots thudded against the floor, accompanied by jingling spurs.

  “Aw, hell!” a Circle 45 hand said.

  Al Martine and Carbone, the Chihuahua gunfighters, walked to the bar. Smoke smiled at the expression on Tall’s face. “You think Bronco Ford is the only one who can send a telegram, Tall?”

  Martine dropped a hand on Tall’s shoulder and spun him around. “You and I, amigo, we have differences to settle between us, no?”