He touched his spurs to Buck’s sides, and they moved out, heading into the wild country of southern Colorado.
Smoke made his first night’s camp just off the Continental Divide Trail. As was his custom, he cooked his supper over a hat-sized fire, then erased all signs of it and moved several miles before bedding down for the night. It was a cold camp, but a safe one.
Up before dawn, he walked the area several times, stopping often to listen. The horses were relaxed, and Buck was better than a watch dog. Satisfied that he was alone, Smoke built a small fire against a rock wall and cooked his breakfast of bacon and potatoes and boiled his coffee.
After eating, he washed his dishes, packed them, and sat back down for a cigarette and some ruminating.
First of all, he wanted to find the Slater gang and start his little war with them. He could not get the picture of that man and woman and the girls he’d found along the trail out of his mind. Men who would do something like that were not to be considered human beings, and it would be very unfair to call them animals. Animals didn’t do things like that. Animals killed for a reason, not for sport and fun. He had promised the dying woman that her grief and pain would be avenged. And Smoke always kept his promises.
He picketed the pack animal in the deep woods, near plenty of water and graze, and saddled Buck. “You ready to go headhunting, boy?”
Buck swung his big head and looked at Smoke through mean eyes. Buck was anything but a gentle animal. Smoke could handle him, and the horse had never harmed a child. But with adults whom he disliked, and that was most of them, the animal could be vicious.
“I thought so,” Smoke said, and swung into the saddle.
He climbed higher, staying in the thickest timber and brush he could find and letting Buck pick his way. Coming to a halt on a ridge that offered a spectacular view for miles around in all directions, Smoke dismounted and took field glasses from his saddlebags and began carefully scanning the area.
His sweep of the area paid off after only a few minutes. He knew where the mining camps were, and where the few homesteaders lived – this was not a country for much farming other than small gardens – and discounted them. With a smile on his lips, he put his binoculars back into the saddlebags and mounted up.
He figured it was time to be sociable and do some calling on folks.
Two hours later, he picketed Buck and hung his spurs on the saddle horn. Taking his rifle, he began making his way through the timber, carefully and silently working his way closer to what he figured was an outlaw camp. He bellied down in thick underbrush when he got within earshot of the mangy-looking bunch of hardcases.
“I’m a-gittin’ tarred of this sittin’ around doin’ nothin’,” a big, ugly-looking man said. “I say we go find us some homesteaders with kids and have our way with the girls.”
“Nice young tender girlies,” another man said with a nasty grin. “I like to hear ’em squall.” He pulled at his crotch. “I like to whup up on ’em, too. I like it when they fight.”
“Maybe we could find us a man to use as target practice,” another mused aloud. “Kill ’im slow. That’s good fun.”
“Slater says we got to wait,” yet another outlaw said. “They gonna be shippin’ out gold and silver in a few days, and we wait until then.”
“Let’s hit the town,” a man suggested, leaning over and pouring a tin cup full of coffee from a big pot. “We’re runnin’ out of grub and besides, they’s wimmin in that little town. I seen me a big fat one. I like fat wimmin. More to whup up on when they’s fat.”
Smoke shot him in the belly.
The gut-shot outlaw screamed and threw the coffee pot, the contents splashing into another man’s face. The scalded punk howled in pain and rolled on the ground, both hands covering his burned face.
The gunny who liked to rape little girls jumped to his boots, his hands filled with six-shooters. He looked wildly around him. Smoke took careful aim and shot a knee out from under the man, the .44 slug breaking the knee.
The man folded up and lay screaming on the ground, his broken knee bent awkwardly. He would be out of action for a long time.
Smoke lined up a punk who’d grabbed up a rifle and put a round in the center of his chest. The man dropped like a rag doll and did not move. He had fallen into the campfire, and his clothing ignited in seconds. The stench of burning flesh began to foul the morning coolness.
Smoke shifted positions as the outlaws fell into cover and began slinging lead in his direction. He rolled for several yards and then belly-crawled a dozen more yards, coming up behind a huge old fallen log.
“Somebody pull Daily outta that far!” a man yelled. “He’s a stinkin’ up ever’thang.”
“You pull him out,” another suggested.
“You go to hell!” the first man told him. “I ramrod this outfit, and you do what I tell you to do.”
The second man told the ramrodder where he could ram his orders. Bluntly.
Smoke waited, his Winchester .44 ready. He caught a glimpse of a checkered shirt and lined it up. It was a man’s arm. Smoke waited, let out some breath, took up the slack on the trigger and let the rifle fire. The man screamed and rolled on the ground, the bullet-shattered arm hanging painfully and uselessly. The .44 slug had hit the man’s elbow. Another out of action.
A smile of grim satisfaction on his lips, Smoke began working his way back, not wanting to risk any further shots. If he waited much longer, the hunter would soon become the hunted.
Back with Buck, he stepped into the saddle and took off in search of a hole.
* * *
“Damnit, Earl!” Mills hollered, waving the letter. “This is tampering with the mail. That’s against the law.”
“I didn’t tamper with anything,” the Englishman said. “The driver handed Smoke the mail, and Smoke told me to give this to you. I gave it to you.”
“You assisted him in getting away!”
“As far as I knew, he was a free man. He could leave anytime he chose.” He shrugged. “He chose to leave.”
Mills stomped out of the office. The men who had escorted the prisoner up to the county seat had returned. Mills started hollering for them to saddle up, they had to find and arrest Smoke Jensen.
The marshals all looked at one another. Going after outlaws was one thing. Tangling with Smoke Jensen was quite another matter.
A trio of deputy sheriffs, come to fetch one of the prisoners in jail, exchanged glances. One asked, “You boys are gonna go do what?”
“We’re going to arrest Smoke Jensen,” Albert said glumly.
“What the devil for?” a deputy asked.
“Federal warrants,” Mills told him, walking up to the group standing on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. “The prisoners can remain in jail. By the powers vested in me by the United States government, I am hereby deputizing you men as deputy U.S. Marshals. You will accompany us in the pursuit and arrest of Smoke Jensen.”
“You can go right straight to hell, too,” a deputy told him. “I ain’t got nothing against Smoke Jensen.
“Me, neither,” another said.
The third deputy turned and started toward the alley.
“Where are you going?” Mills demanded.
“To the outhouse,” the man called over his shoulder. “And as full of it as you are, you best do the same.”
“You men do not seem to understand the gravity of this situation!”
“I understand this,” a deputy told him. “You go after Smoke Jensen, you’re gonna come back – if you come back at all – acrost your saddle.”
“Yeah,” the second deputy said. “If I was you, I’d sit on that warrant for a time. Smoke is a respected rancher of some wealth. I’ll wager than warrant ain’t worth the paper it’s written on. Besides, do you know what you’d get if you crossed a grizzly bear and a puma and a rattlesnake and a timber wolf and some monster outta Hell?”
“I have not the vaguest idea.”
“You’d get Smoke
Jensen. You best leave him alone. That ol’ boy was born with the bark on and was raised up by mountain men and Injuns. They’s tribes all over the West sing songs about how feeroocious Jensen is. ’Sides, you ever heard of gunslingers name of Charlie Starr, Monte Carson, Louis Longmont, Johnny North, Cotton Pickens, and the like?”
“Of course, I’ve heard of them! What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Man, how’d you like to see them ol’ boys and thirty more just as randy come a-foggin’ in here, reins in their teeth and hands full of Colts, all of ’em mad at you?”
“That . . . would not be a pleasant sight,” Mills admitted.
“Pleasant sight! You couldn’t see nothin’ like it this side of Hell! Now you just pull in your horns and give that warrant time to rest, Mr. U.S. Marshal. Things will work out. You keep your nose out of Smoke Jensen’s business. That way, you’ll stay alive.”
“I have a job to do, sir!”
“So do we,” the deputy said. “But sometimes you got to let common sense take over. Smoke’s killed a lot of sorry ol’ boys in his time, but he ain’t no back-shootin’ murderer. All them he put in the ground was either stand-up fair fights – and usually he’s facin’ two or three at a time – or punks that was after him and he waylaid ’em to shorten the odds. You think about that warrant, mister. You think a long time about it. The longer you think, the longer you got to live.”
The deputies collected their prisoner and pulled out that afternoon. The RCMP were due in town within the next several days. Mills looked at Earl, looking at him.
“You’ll stay to sign the papers and give the prisoner to the Canadians?”
“Uh-huh. Where are you going?”
“I have a man to arrest.”
“You best use pen and paper in the office, then,” Earl said solemnly.
“To do what, sir?” Mills asked.
“To leave me the name of your next of kin.”
* * *
Foolishly, the outlaws in the camp Smoke attacked came after him. He led them on a goose hunt in the mountains and then tired of the game. He dismounted and took his rifle from the boot, then selected a position on a ridge where he could effectively cover his back trail.
The gang came in a rush, whipping their lathered and tired horses. Smoke emptied two saddles, and the others retreated down the slope, for the moment out of range. Smoke nibbled on a cold biscuit, took a sip of water, and waited. The old mountain man Preacher had taught him many things as a boy, one of which was patience.
After several moments, a man shouted out, “Who you be up yonder?”
“An avenging angel!” Smoke returned the shout, then shifted positions.
He could not hear the reply, if any, but he was certain the mutterings among the scum were highly profane.
“What’s your beef with us?” someone finally shouted.
Smoke shifted his eyes, sensing that conversation on the part of the outlaws would be nothing more than a cover for someone trying to slip around and flank him.
But he had not chosen his position without an eye for detail. To his left lay a sheer rock face. To his right, a clear field of fire, virtually without cover for anyone except a very skilled Indian warrior. The outlaws would have to come at him from the front.
“You deef up there?”
Smoke offered no reply. A few shots were fired at him, but they fell far short of his position. It was an impasse, but one that Smoke knew he would win simply because he had more patience than the outlaws. The men he had shot lay sprawled on the trail. One he had shot dead, the other had died only moments before, gutshot and dying hard, calling out for God to help him. The same God the girls he had helped rape and torture had called out to, no doubt.
Smoke watched as the men broke cover and ran for their horses. He waited and watched as they rode back down the trail. Smoke slipped back to Buck, booted his rifle, and took off. He would hit another outlaw camp that evening. He liked the night. He was very good in the night. The Orientals had a word for it that Smoke had read in a book Sally had bought for him. Ninja.
He liked that.
* * *
“That dude is still at the hotel, ma’am,” a hand reported to Sally. “He’s gonna get his ashes hauled if he don’t stop with the bad mouth against Smoke.”
“He’d just sue you,” Sally told him.
“One of them,” the hand said disgustedly.
“I’m afraid so. What’s he saying about my husband?”
“That Smoke has turned cold-blooded killer. That he enjoys killin’. That he’s crazy. Monte is gonna have to put him in jail for his own protection if this keeps up.”
Sally nodded her head. “I wired friends back East to check into whether there is any connection between Judge Richards and Larry. They could find none – at least on the surface. I don’t believe there is any connection. Larry is just meddling, hoping to discredit Smoke in my eyes.”
“You want me to conk him on the head and toss him in an eastbound freight wagon, ma’am?”
Sally laughed. “No, Jim. But I’m not going to ask anyone to protect him, either. Larry is, I’m afraid, going to learn a hard lesson about the West and its people.”
“He’s liable to end up in a pine box, ma’am.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “There is always that possibility. But he’s a man grown, and has to take responsibility for his words and deeds. I warned him of the consequences if he persisted in spreading vile gossip about my husband. We’ll just let the chips fall, Jim.”
“It won’t be long, ma’am. Somebody’s gonna tell that greenhorn lawyer to check, bet or fold pretty darn quick.” He put his hat back on his head. “And, ma’am ... it’s likely to be me that does it.”
Sally watched the hand walk back to the bunkhouse. She knew that the West was, in many respects, a very tolerant place. A person’s past was their business. A handshake was a deal sealed. A person gave their word, it was binding. And if you bad-mouthed somebody, you had damn well better be prepared to back it up with guns or fists. It was the code, and the code was unwritten law in the West.
“Larry,” she muttered, “you’re heading for a stomping if you don’t close that mouth.”
Chapter Ten
“That’s it, mister!” a cowboy said to Larry. “I’ve had your flappin’ mouth. Now shut the damn thing and shut it now!”
Larry turned in his chair and stared at the man. The others in the cafe fell silent. For days the citizens in and around Big Rock had put up with the Easterner’s bad-mouthing of Smoke Jensen. Most of them felt it was just the man’s ignorance and let it slide. But it was getting wearing ... very wearing. The cowboy from Johnny North’s ranch was one of those Smoke had befriended, and he had had quite enough of Larry’s mouth.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Larry questioned, removing his napkin from his shirt-front and laying it on the table.
“I said for you to close that flappin’ trap of yours,” the cowboy said. “Smoke ain’t here to defend himself agin your lyin’ mouth. And I for one have had enough of it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, walking to Larry’s table.
“Sir,” Larry said, “I have a right to an opinion. That is a basic right. One only has to look at Jensen’s record of brutality and callousness to see that the man has no regard for law and order and the rights of others. I ...”
The cowboy slapped him out of the chair. Larry’s butt bounced on the floor. He stared up at the man, his mouth bloody from the callused hand of the cowboy. His eyes were wide from shock.
Larry looked over at the sheriff. Monte Carson was recovering from his wounds, his left arm still in a sling where the .45 slug had busted his forearm. He stared at Larry with decidedly unfriendly eyes.
“Do something!” Larry hollered.
“What do you want me to do?” Monte questioned.
“This brute assaulted me!” Larry yelled, crawling to his knees and grabbing the back of a chair for support. “I want him placed under arrest.�
�
“You’re under arrest, Clint,” Monte said, sugaring his coffee.
“The fine for disturbing the peace is two dollars,” Judge Proctor said, carefully cutting the slice of beef on his lunch plate.
Twenty silver dollars hit the floor from the pockets of patrons seated around the cafe.
Willow Brook, wife of the town’s only lawyer, Hunt, counted the money on the floor. “I think that means you can break the law a few more times, Clint,” she said.
“What?” Larry screamed. “What kind of justice is this?”
“Western kind,” Clint said, and jerked the man up by his shirt.
“Unhand me, you heathen!” Larry yelled.
Clint did just that. He tossed Larry out the front door, and the man landed in a horse trough.
“And don’t come back in here!” the cafe owner yelled, once Larry had bubbled to the surface. “You are now officially barred from dinin’ in my establishment.”
“The cuisine was terrible anyway!” Larry yelled.
“I ain’t never served nothin’ like that in my life!” the cook screamed from the back.
“Ignorant oaf!” Larry said, stepping out of the horse trough with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. “I’m going to sue everybody in that establishment!” He pointed at the cafe.
Monte walked to the door. “Get off the street, or I’ll put you in jail for attempting to incite a riot,” he told Larry.
“You’ll put me in jail!” Larry shouted. He shook his finger at the sheriff. “You’ve not heard the last of this, sir,” he warned. “I am an attorney of some reputation. I can assure you all that the consequences will be dire. I ...”
“You got nine more chances, Clint,” Monte said.
The cowboy stepped out onto the shaded boardwalk, and Larry took off running toward the Majestic Hotel. His shoes squished with every step. His ears were flame-red from the laughter he was leaving behind him.
* * *
Mills Walsdorf led his men some twelve miles out of town and halted the parade.
“What’s up, Mills?” Moss asked.
“We make camp here.”
“Lot of daylight left,” Winston pointed out the obvious.
Code of the Mountain Man Page 10
