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

by William W. Johnstone

  “I have no idea,” Smoke told him. “I didn’t send for them. They don’t work for me or the Double D. They’ve lived a long, rich, full life, Harris. They’d rather go out in a blaze of glory. And they damn sure don’t take orders from any man.”

  “Yeah,” the sheriff said. “I noticed.”

  “You think Preacher sent them, Smoke?” Sally asked as they sat alone in a swing in the side yard that evening.

  “I’m not even sure that Preacher is still alive, Sally. I think he is, and living in that home for old mountain men and gunfighters. No, I think these ol’ boys just heard the news and couldn’t wait to jump right in the middle of a good fight.”

  Sally looked around her in the dim light of gathering gloom. Mountains loomed all around them. “I wonder where they are right now?”

  “The old mountain men? Oh, they’re gathered around a little hat-sized fire, boiling coffee and searing fresh-killed deer or maybe one of the Double D’s steers. They’re laughing about what took place this day and figuring on how best to stir up some more trouble tomorrow. Don’t worry about them. They’ve been taking care of themselves since long before you and I were born.”

  “But they’re old men, honey. They’re in their seventies and eighties.”

  Smoke chuckled. “And they’re still tough as rawhide and mean as a just-woke grizzly. Sally, those ol’ boys are having the time of their lives. They’re giggling and cackling like a bunch of schoolboys right now. Oh, they’ve got aches and pains from rheumatism and the years of badly-set broken bones and the like. But this is fun to them. They’ve got something to do now. They feel a purpose to their lives. I hope none of them get hurt or killed. But if they do, they went into this with their eyes wide open. I lived with mountain men, Sally. I know the type of men they are; I’m a part of that breed. Don’t worry about them.”

  From miles away, they both caught the very faint howl of a wolf echoing around the mountains. Another joined in, then another. Smoke chuckled. “That’s them, isn’t it?” Sally asked.

  “Yes, that’s Puma and Lee and their friends. But they’re not doing that for my ears. That’s over on the Circle 45 range. They’re letting Clint and his gunhands know they’re still around. I’d like to be a fly on the wall of the bunkhouses right now.

  “Old bastards!” Tall said, as he sat on his bunk, cleaning his guns.

  Yukon Golden smiled. “I hear you had your chance at some of them this day. And Al Martine, too. What’s the matter, Tall, you have a change of heart?”

  Tall stared at the man. “It ain’t over yet, Yukon. And was I you, I’d watch my mouth.”

  “Shut up! “Bronco said from the open door. It would be open for some time, since the mountain men had shot it off. “The both of you. We’re riding tonight. We’re gonna hit the town and burn it to the ground!”

  25

  “This is a dumb play,” Yukon said. “Nobody ain’t never treed no Western town and we’re gonna get the crap shot out of us attemptin’ it.”

  “We’re not gonna treed it,” Grub said. “Just burn it to the ground.”

  “How?”

  “With fire!” Ed Burke said with a laugh.

  “Clint’s got all that worked out. Stop worryin’ so much.”

  “Yeah?” Yukon looked at the man. “So you tell me this: we burn the town to the ground, where are we gonna get supplies and food and whiskey? Huh?”

  That got everybody’s attention. Slim King finally said, “I don’t understand why we’re burnin’ the damn town noways.”

  “’Cause the boss says to do it,” another summed it all up.

  “That’s right,” Bronco said from the doorway. “These folks are gettin’ too uppity for Clint’s tastes. We burn them out and then when they move on, we rebuild the town and fill it with folks who’ll show some respect for Circle 45 hands. Get your dusters and your masks. Let’s ride.”

  But Clint’s plan wasn’t a very good one. Had he halted the thunderous drum of hooves a mile from town and sent men in in small teams, they could have easily burned down the town. Instead, the paid gunhands galloped up to the bridge, stopped, lit their torches, and then roared into town. By that time, the townspeople had armed themselves and were waiting. The Circle 45 men got the crap shot out of them.

  They made only one pass through town and Bronco hollered at them to head for home range, taking the long way around to get there. There were six men dead in the dirt and four more wounded, their torches burning brightly on the ground beside them. Several buildings were set on fire, and that delayed the forming of a posse while the fires were extinguished.

  “No point in going after them, Sheriff,” Harris was told. “We all know who ordered it. They’ll just alibi for each other like they’ve always done. Tomorrow we’ll put signs up at both ends of town. No Circle 45 riders allowed in town. We’re not going to sell your brother any more supplies.”

  “Do whatever you want to do, Felker. It’s fine with me.”

  “And from now on, we all go armed, at all times. Swede over to the blacksmith’s is gonna start sawing the barrels off of shotguns starting at first light. We’ve had all we’re going to take, Harris. Any trouble starts, we’re shooting.”

  The sheriff met the feed store owner’s steady gaze. “All right, Felker. I guess it’s way past time.” Past time for a lot of things, Harris thought as he walked away. He turned up a darkened street toward his small house. Guns blossomed flame in the night and Harris Black fell forward on his face.

  “Is he still alive?” Smoke asked Doc Garrett the next morning. A deputy had ridden out before dawn to tell them the news and Smoke had ridden back into town with him.

  “He’s hanging on,” Garrett said. “I’ve done all that I can do. He took two slugs in the chest. Forty-fives, I think. One passed right through and the other lodged. I dug it out. He has not regained consciousness.”

  “He’s a good man, Doc. The community would feel his loss.”

  “Yes. It took Harris a time to see his brother for what he really is, but he came around and then tried to do his best. They shot him down in the dark, from hiding. I doubt that he’ll be able to add anything to that. If he ever regains consciousness.”

  “You’re not from the West, are you, Doc?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve seen men soak up half a dozen .45 slugs and stay on their feet and kill the man who put them there, and then go on to live to be old men. It’s a tough breed out here, Doc.”

  “Well, Harris’ breathing has evened out. He’s got a chance. That’s about all I can say.”

  “Tall Mosley hasn’t.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Has there been another shooting?”

  “One is about a minute or so away. Al Martine rode in with me. And there’s Tall stepping down at the saloon.”

  “What is it between those two?”

  “They just don’t like each other.” Smoke walked out to the street and leaned up against an awning support post. He rolled a cigarette and waited.

  Tall turned and faced Martine, who was standing on the boardwalk across the street. “What do you want, greaser?” Tall tossed the question out.

  “Satisfacción, you son of a puta.”

  Doc Garrett stepped out. “I know what that means,” the doctor said.

  “Yeah. Very uncomplimentary,” Smoke said, striking a match and touching the flame to his cigarette.

  “I’ll kill you for that,” Tall said.

  “Then try.”

  Tall grabbed and Al put two holes in him. Tall stumbled backward, dropping one gun into the dirt.

  “I told him a long time ago that jerking both guns was gonna get him killed someday,” Smoke said. “Cuts your speed down just a tad.”

  Tall lifted his right hand and tried to cock his pistol. Martine waited. Tall painfully eared the hammer back and pulled the trigger, blowing a hole in the dirt. He fell to his knees and dropped that Colt. Then he toppled over into the hoof-churned earth.
r />   “One less,” Smoke commented, as Al turned and went into the general store to buy some candy for his sweet tooth.

  The two deputies who were in town had watched it all and they walked across the street to stand over the dying Tall Mosley.

  “Sweet Baby Jesus!” Lucas said, looking up the street. “Look at that!”

  Ten riders were walking their horses slowly into town. Smoke had already recognized Danny O’Brian and Yukon Golden. As they drew nearer, he could make out Slim King and Grub Carson. He was not familiar with the others.

  “What do they want?” Doc Garrett asked.

  “Me,” Smoke told him.

  “And you’re going to do what about it?”

  “Meet them.”

  “All ten of them?”

  Smoke smiled. “Well…in a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Smoke looked across the street toward the general store. Al Martine had just stepped out and was standing in front of the store, sucking on a piece of peppermint candy. He pointed up the street and Smoke cut his eyes. Carbone was riding in and Smoke could tell by the tenseness of the man’s body that he was quickly sizing things up. Smoke nodded.

  “Get up to those deputies, Doc. And tell them to clear the street. Quick, now. Those gunslingers are hunting blood and they’re liable to start shooting at any moment.” He stepped back inside the doctor’s office, and exited out the back way just as Martine was angling for a better position.

  Smoke trotted down to the saloon and slipped in through the back door. He wanted as much of the shooting as possible off the street, for the town was unusually crowded this morning, and a lot of kids were in town with their parents.

  The bartender saw him and nearly had a heart attack. This barkeep was about the most timid Smoke had ever seen. He put a finger to his lips, shushing the man, and moved to a corner of the room, near a table that was shrouded in shadows. He loosened his guns.

  Donovan, and a hired gun from over Kansas way named Lessing, entered the bar. They failed to see Smoke standing in the shadows. Tom Clark, George Miller, and Ed Burke faced Al Martine. Carbone was walking up the center of the street toward Danny O’Brian and Yukon Golden. Slim King and Grub Carson had slipped down an alleyway, looking for Smoke.

  “You, ah, boys want a drink?” the nervous barkeep asked.

  “Shut up,” Lessing told him. “If we want a drink we’ll ask for one.” He looked around him, his eyes finally picking out the shape of a man standing in the gloom. “Who the hell are you?”

  “The grim reaper,” Smoke told him.

  “The what?” Donovan asked.

  “The pale rider.”

  “Don’t give me no lip, boy,” Donovan said. “I want a straight answer.” He stepped away from the bar and walked slowly toward Smoke. “Damn!” the word left his mouth as he finally recognized the man in the shadows. He jerked iron.

  Smoke’s .44 roared and spat flame and lead. Donovan doubled over and slumped to his knees, his belly on fire and his lips spewing painful screams. His six-gun slipped from his fingers. Lessing’s guns roared just as Smoke dropped to one knee. The slugs went over his head and slammed into the wall. Smoke leveled his .44 and drilled Lessing clean, the lead taking him in the center of the chest.

  Out on the street, guns were roaring and men were dying. Lessing cussed Smoke once and then fell forward, no longer able to stay on his feet. Donovan was out of it, stretched out full length on the floor, screaming in pain. Smoke picked up Donovan’s gun and shoved it behind his belt. He walked toward Lessing as the man was fumbling to lift his six-shooter. Smoke took it away from him and tossed it on the bar. He loaded up his own .44 and then loaded up the gun he’d taken from Donovan. He sensed more than heard movement in the storage room. Smoke stepped back and waited. The barkeep was nowhere in sight. He had laid down on the floor behind the long bar.

  Out on the street, Burke was down and dead with a bullet in his brain and Tom Clark was on his knees, both hands holding his bloody belly. George Miller had dashed down an alleyway.

  Danny O’Brian was sprawled in the street and Yukon and Carbone had taken cover behind watering troughs and were exchanging shots.

  Slim King pulled open the storage room door and cautiously stepped into the salon, both hands filled with guns. Grub was right behind him, holding a sawed-off shotgun. Both of them saw the bloody body of Lessing and looked around until their eyes found the source of the screaming. Donovan was jerking on the floor, just moments from death. Smoke gave no warning. He just lifted both .44s and started firing as fast as he could cock the hammer and pull the trigger.

  One slug hit the shotgun just as Grub had turned and was lifting the weapon. Both barrels fired, the full charge taking Slim in the back at a distance of no more than two feet. The man was blown apart and dead instantly. Horror in his eyes at what he had done, and his fingers numbed from the unexpected discharge, Grub dropped the shotgun and clawed for his pistols.

  Smoke let him clear leather and then shot the man twice, both .44 slugs striking him in the chest. Grub would no longer have to worry about his next meal. Reloading, Smoke carefully avoided the mess by the storage room door and walked out the rear door of the saloon.

  A slug knocked out chips of wood by Smoke’s head. He flattened against the wall, then edged back in the direction from which he’d come and slipped under the saloon, hoping he would not disturb any rattler who might be seeking shelter from the hot sun. He worked his way toward the front of the building and after carefully checking the rear of the alley, he slipped out near the mouth and stood for a few seconds, watching the action in the street. Yukon’s back was to him.

  “Hey, Yukon!” he called.

  The gunfighter spun around and stood up. Smoke and Carbone fired as one. Yukon Golden lifted himself to his full height. He wore a very curious expression on his face. His guns clattered to the boardwalk and he pitched forward.

  “How many left?” Martine called.

  “Two, I think,” Carbone shouted back.

  “Clark and Miller,” someone shouted from behind walls. “They’re down near the smithy’s shop.”

  The sound of galloping horses thundering out of town followed the shout.

  “The bastards stole my horses!” a man yelled.

  “That’s it then,” Smoke said, walking up to where Tom Clark lay in the street. Ed Burke lay dead a few feet away. Tom was still alive, but not by much. Smoke knelt down behind the mortally wounded gunhand.

  “If you have anything to say, you’d better say it quick,” Smoke told him.

  “Go to hell,” Tom gasped.

  “I am thinking you will be there before us,” Carbone said, punching out empties and reloading.

  “You the one that shot me?” Tom asked.

  “I did,” Martine said. “I think.”

  “You go to hell, too!”

  The Mexican gunfighter shrugged his shoulders philosophically. “All in due time, pistolero. But I have friends down there you might look up and say hello to.”

  Tom cussed them all and then closed his eyes. His fingers clawed at the dirt for a moment; then he relaxed.

  The undertaker and his assistant ran up, both of them smiling. Business had never been this good. People began crowding the streets, eyeballing all the dead and congratulating the Double D men. But Smoke, Carbone, and Martine all knew the congratulations were hollow. They were welcome now, but whenever the shooting finally stopped and Clint Black was either dead, gone, or in jail, the welcoming would cease and the citizens would begin to drop hints that perhaps it was time for the gunfighters to leave. They had all been through it many times in the past.

  “Somebody come in here and help me clean up all this mess!” the barkeep squalled. “I’m gettin’ sick to my stomick. I never seen such a terrible sight.”

  The two deputies walked up, along with Dr. Garrett.

  “Harris just opened his eyes,” the doctor told them. “When all the shooting started,” he said, ‘Smoke Jensen must be in
town.’”

  26

  Three of Clint Black’s hands disappeared while out rounding up the last of the horses. Horses and riders just vanished. No trace of them was ever found.

  “Them ol’ men got them,” Bronco opined. “They’re camped all around the edge of the range. Brazen about it, too. They don’t make no effort to hide their cookfires. They’re darin’ us to come get them.”

  “Hell with them,” Clint said. “They’re not our main problem.” He was still shaken by the news that eight of his best gunhands had gone face down in town. Now it looked like his brother was going to live, and that irritated him. Everything was going sour. He’d lost two more of his hired guns. They had just saddled up and ridden out. Didn’t even ask for any pay. They just left.

  What made matters even worse was that not a single reply had been received on his latest bid to hire more men. No one wanted to tangle with a dozen or more living legends. Including the cook, he had twenty-six men. At one time, Clint had boasted he could field seventy-five of the toughest hands in the territory. Now he didn’t have a single working cowboy left. Not that it mattered, for he personally had ridden his range and found that he didn’t have a steer left. They had all been rustled, probably by the mountain men. His house and all the outbuildings were in a shambles from hundreds of rounds being pumped into them; the roofs all leaked. He could not find any workmen to repair the damage. No one would work for him. And he had even put ads in the Helena paper.

  Clint sat in his den, his thoughts dark. The Double D was now in good shape, with a large herd and at least fifteen tough, seasoned hands to maintain it. Clint and his men had been banned from ever setting foot in Blackstown—the name of which had now been changed to Canyon City. His town no longer.

  Clint was under no illusions about facing Smoke Jensen—the one person he blamed for all his misfortune. He wasn’t as fast with guns as Smoke was and he didn’t think he could take him in any type of stand-up fistfight.