“You may. Let’s go into my office, and I’ll bring you up to date on Smoke’s troubles.”
Larry Tibbson had taken the first stage out of Big Rock, heading down to where Smoke was hiding out. He kept a very low profile and kept his big mouth shut concerning his opinions of Smoke Jensen. He decided that since the town was growing so quickly – he didn’t have sense enough to know what was causing the rapid growth, nor that it would very likely bust as quickly as it boomed – he would hang out his shingle in the newly named town of Rio. Everybody needed the services of a good attorney from time to time, and this looked like the ideal spot to make some quick money.
But my word! Larry thought, stepping off the stage, it was so rowdy here. All these rough-looking fellows carrying guns and knives right out in the open. Shocking! He had never seen anything like it. And their boorish behavior was offensive to someone of Larry’s gentle sensibilities. All the more reason to stay, he thought. Bring some refinement to the savages.
He managed to get the last room available in the hotel – and he did that by paying five times the usual going rate.
“Them sheets ain’t been slept on but three times,” the man told him, in protest over Larry’s demand for clean sheets. “The last feller used ’em didn’t appear to have no fleas.”
“Change the sheets!”
“All right, all right,” the newly hired room clerk grumbled.
Larry turned to the stairs and was stopped in his tracks at the sight of Louis Longmont dismounting and shaking hands with what appeared to be a constable of some sort. It was hard to tell in this barbaric setting, since lawmen, for the most part, did not wear uniforms denoting their profession, as was the case in more civilized parts of the nation.
Louis Longmont ... here? Larry walked to the window of the saloon and looked out, seeing the six-guns belted around the millionaire’s waist. So the rumors were true after all, Larry mused. The man was an adventurer. But was he here to hunt down Smoke Jensen, or to aid the gunfighter?
And who was that long-haired, grizzled-looking older man shaking hands with the constable? Obviously some sort of gunfighter, but it was hard to tell, since all those gathered around the constable wore two guns, tied down. It was so confusing out here.
With a sigh, Larry turned to climb the stairs. He angled over and spoke to the room clerk, whose small station was at the end of the bar.
“Do you have inside facilities?” Larry inquired.
“Huh?”
“Water closets inside.”
“Hell, no!”
Larry shook his head and headed for the room.
“You forgot your bags,” the room clerk called.
“Carry them up for me.”
“Tote your own damn bags, mister!”
Larry climbed the stairs, sweating under the load of his trunk. All in all, he thought, the West just had to be the most barbaric and inhospitable place he had ever traveled.
* * *
“How many men in Slater’s bunch?” Johnny asked.
Earl spread his hands. “Fifty to seventy-five are the numbers I keep hearing.”
“Smoke’s a tough ol’ boy,” Charlie Starr said. “But he’s not indestructible. He’s gonna need some help with this one. Come the morning I’ll provision up and head out for the lonesome. Louis, I think you and Johnny and Cotton ought to stay close to here. This town’s a-fixin’ to bust wide open and Earl, here, is gonna need some help keepin’ order. ’Sides, Smoke needs all the friendly ears he can use right here.”
“I agree,” Louis said. “Sooner or later, Smoke is going to tire of the mountains and come into town, and to hell with the U.S. Marshals. We need to be here to back him up.”
Johnny had left Big Rock before Larry Tibbson started with all his mouth, so all he knew about the Eastern lawyer was that he’d come trying to spark a married woman, Sally, and that was a stupid thing to do. If Smoke had been home, the lawyer would be cold in the ground with the worms playing the dipsy-doodle around his sewed-together lips. Which was about the only way anybody could get a lawyer to shut up.
Someone had set up a portable saw mill and was already backed up with orders for lumber. The sounds of sawing and hammering and nailing and cussing overrode any other sound in the town. With Earl Sutcliffe as the marshal, few dared to fire a pistol, even for fun. And the whole town knew within minutes of their arrival that Cotton Pickens, Johnny North, Charlie Starr, and Louis Longmont were on the side of the law with Earl Sutcliffe. That knowledge smoothed out just a whole bunch of otherwise sharp and explosive tempers. It would take a puredee damn fool to go up against those five.
“Now,” Earl said, “we have to see about rooms for you gentlemen.”
Louis shook his head. “No need. Andre is hiring people now to erect my saloon and gambling hall. We’ll have board floors and wooden sides, but a canvas top. I’ll have the workmen build an addition to the saloon for us. Until then, we’ll sleep out under God’s blanket.”
“I’m gonna start puttin’ my provisions together,” Charlie said. “I get it done soon enough, I just might take off while there’s a few hours of daylight left.”
“Get whatever you need and charge it, Charlie,” Earl told him. “Your money is no good in this town.”
Charlie looked at the man. “I ain’t no broke saddle bum, Earl.”
“Of course, you’re not,” Louis said with a smile. “If you wish, you can settle up when you return from the mountains.”
“I just might do that. See you boys.” The old gunfighter left the office.
“Whew!” Johnny said. “That, fellers, is one randy ol’ puma.”
“I concur,” Louis said. “Have you ever seen him in action, Earl?”
“No, never.”
“Awesome. He’s a little slower than he used to be, I would imagine. But still one of the fastest guns around. And he never misses.”
“I would like to get word to Smoke that you are here,” Earl said. “But I haven’t the foggiest where he might be.”
Louis shrugged his shoulders. “Knowing Smoke as I do, he probably already knows. Although how he manages to learn those things mystifies me.”
“Indians say that eagles come tell him,” Cotton said.
“I’ve heard that, too,” Johnny said.
“If he knows you gentlemen are here,” Earl said drily, “it is probably because he squatted on a mountain and watched the road below through field glasses.”
“I like the eagle story better,” Louis said, and the men burst out laughing.
* * *
A bounty hunter they called Slim Williams wasn’t laughing. He had left the road miles from the newly named town of Rio and headed into the high country. He’d come upon tracks: a man riding and a pack horse behind.
He found where the man had stopped and dismounted for a drink of water at a rushing mountain stream. A big man, judging by his boot tracks. And Smoke Jensen was a big man.
Then he lost the trail. Slim wandered around for a hour and never could pick it back up. He had sat his horse for a time, smoking a cigarette and thinking things through. His eyes caught movement in the timber, about a hundred yards away. Then the man – and he was sure it was a man – was gone.
“What the hell?” Slim said. He rode his tired horse over to the spot where he’d seen the movement and dismounted. There were tracks, and the print was about the same size as those he’d seen back at that little crick. But this man was wearing moccasins. And it hadn’t been no Injun, neither. Slim was sure of that. This man seemed to have some sort of black bandanna tied around his head, and his hair had been cut short.
He walked back to where he’d left his horse reined. The damn horse was gone!
“Shotgun!” Slim called. “Come on, Shotgun. Come to Slim, boy.”
Silence greeted him from the high country timber.
Slim began to worry. He could make it back to the road; he wasn’t worried about that. But all his possessions were in the saddlebags or tied in
his bedroll.
“Shotgun! Now come on, boy. Come to Ol’ Slim, Shotgun.”
Slim spun around, a Colt leaping into his hand as the voice came out of the timber. “Shotgun was tired. He needed a rest.”
“Who the hell are you, mister? You gimmie back my damn horse, you thief!”
“A back-shooting murderer calling me a thief.” The voice laughed. “That’s very funny.”
Slim cussed him.
Smoke said, “You looking for Smoke Jensen?”
“That ain’t none of your concern, mister.”
“I can lead you to him.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I get half the reward money, though.”
“You go suck an egg, mister.” Slim thought for a moment. “Tell you what I’ll do, mister. You step out so’s I can see you, and we’ll talk.”
“You put that gun up, and I’ll do that.” The voice was closer, and coming from a different location each time.
Damn, Slim thought. The man moves like a ghost. And I know that voice from somewheres. “Deal.” Slim holstered his gun, thinking that if the man was planning to kill him, he’d have done so already.
“Turn around.” The voice came from behind him.
Slim turned, and felt his stomach do a slow roll-over. He was facing Smoke Jensen. “Hello, Smoke. It’s been a long time. Years.”
“You should have stayed home, Slim,” Smoke told him.
“Man’s got to make a livin’, Smoke.”
“You know damn well those warrants out on me are bogus. You’re a man-hunter, Slim. Out for the money. I got no use for scum like you.”
“You ain’t got no call to talk to me like that, Smoke. This ain’t nothin’ personal ’tween us. You’ve kilt more’un your share of men. You ain’t no better than I am.”
“We’ll let God be the judge of that, Slim. You came looking for me, now you’ve found me. Make your play.”
Slim began to sweat. He hadn’t planned on this. He’d planned on back-shootin’ Smoke. His tongue snaked out to wet dry lips. “We can deal, Jensen. I can just ride on out of here and not look back.”
“That’s the same deal you made with the breed, Cloudwalker. Then you shot him in the back, all the time knowing he was an innocent man.”
“Hell, Smoke, he was a damn Injun!”
“He was an innocent man. I’ve stayed with Crows and Utes and Sioux and Cheyenne. I have a lot of good Indian friends. It doesn’t make any difference to me if a man is red, white, Negro, or Oriental.”
“Don’t preach to me, Jensen!” Slim got his dander up. “I don’t need no goddamn gunslick sermonizin’ to me.”
“Draw, Slim!”
Slim grabbed for iron. Smoke’s .44 slug caught him dead center in his chest and knocked him back against a tree. He finally managed to pull iron, and Smoke’s second shot tore into his belly.
Slim screamed as the .44 slug ripped through his innards like a white-hot branding iron. His .44 dropped from dying fingers. He slumped to the cool ground.
“You gonna bury me proper, ain’t you, Jensen?” he gasped the question.
“I’ll toss some branches and rocks over you, Slim. I don’t have a shovel.”
“I hate you, Jensen!”
“I don’t understand that, Slim. What did I ever do to you to cause you to hate me?”
“Jist ... bein’ . . . you!” Slim closed his eyes and died.
Smoke went through Slim’s pockets before he piled branches and rocks over the body to discourage smaller animals, all the while knowing that a bear could, and probably would, rip it apart in seconds. He would give the money to some needy family. There was no indication that Slim had a family. Smoke shoved one of Slim’s .44s behind his gunbelt and kept the other one in leather, hanging on his saddle horn. He inspected the late Slim’s Winchester .44-.40. It was in excellent condition, and this one had an extra rear sight, located several inches behind the hammer, for greater accuracy. He found three boxes of .44-.40s in the saddlebags. Slim also had a nice poke of food: some bacon and bread and biscuits and three cans of beans that would come in handy on the trail.
Smoke hesitated, then carved Slim’s name on the tree that towered over the man. He put the date below the name and mounted up and pulled out, knowing that shots carry far in the high thin air of the lonesome.
He stopped once, looking back at Slim Williams’ final resting place. “You should have picked another line of work, Slim. That’s about the best I can say for you. God’s gonna have the final word anyway”
Chapter Twelve
“Them was shots,” Crocker said. “Come from over yonder.” He pointed. “Let’s go!”
“That’s Horton’s assigned area,” Graham said.
“Hell with Horton,” Crocker blew away the myth about honor among thieves. “Don’t you want that money? Man, that’s five thousand apiece if we cut it up.”
“What’d you mean: if we cut it up?” Causey asked.
“All right, when we cut it up. Does that make you feel better?”
“Let’s ride!” Woody said. “Damn all this jibber-jabber. Smoke’ll be in the next county ’fore we get done talkin’.”
They found where Smoke had carved Slim’s date of death in the tree.
“Knowed him,” Dale said. “He was good with a gun.”
“Not good enough,” Haynes summed it up. “Let’s drag him out and go through his pockets.”
The men tore away the rocks and branches and searched the stiffening form of Slim. They found nothing of value. Woody did take the man’s boots, putting them on and throwing his worn-out boots by the body. They left Slim sprawled on the ground, one big toe sticking out of the hole in his dirty sock.
A bear came lumbering out of the timber and sniffed the dead man. He dragged Slim off a few hundred yards and covered him up with branches. When Slim ripened some he would be back for a meal.
* * *
“Hey, old man!” the young man called out to Charlie Starr, as Charlie sipped his whiskey prior to hitting the saddle for the high lonesome.
Charlie ignored him.
“I’m talkin’ to you, old shaggy-haired thing you!”
Most of the men in the crowded saloon were chance-takers and gamblers and gun-hands and bounty hunters. None of them knew the gray-haired man with the tied down guns, the wooden handles worn smooth, but they could sense danger all around him.
Charlie took a small sip of his whiskey—holding the glass in his left hand—and decided to wait it out. He’d been around for a long time, and knew there was a chance—albeit a small one—that he could avoid having to deal with this young smart-mouth. Maybe his friends would sit him down. Maybe.
“Damn!” the young gunslick yelled. “His hair’s so shaggy it’s blockin’ his ears. Maybe we ought to give him a haircut.”
We! Charlie thought. More than one. But maybe his friends will stay out of it. Maybe.
“Bobby ...” a young man said, pulling at the young smart-mouth’s arm.
“Shut up!” Bobby said. “You don’t have the balls for this, stay out of it.”
Charlie sipped his drink. The whiskey tasted good after the dust of the road. He’d been a hard-drinkin’ man in his younger days. Now he enjoyed just an occasional drink, liked to linger over it. In peace. Young Bobby was pushing. Hard. Just a few more words and he would step over the line. Charlie hoped the young man would just sit down and shut up.
“Goddamn mangy old fart!” Bobby yelled. “You wear them two guns like you think you’re hot stuff. Turn around and prove it!”
There it was, Charlie thought. He would have liked to just finish his drink and walk out the door. But the code demanded that he do otherwise.
No, Charlie corrected that. It wasn’t just the code. It was much more than that. It came with manhood. It was part of maintaining one’s self-respect. It ...
Larry Tibbson walked down the rickety stairs and stepped into the barroom.
. . . was just something that a m
an had to do. Right or wrong, and Charlie had thoughts about that, it just had to be.
“I called for hot water!” Larry said.
“Shut up and git out of the way,” the bartender told him.
“You goddamn old turd!” Bobby hollered. “Turn around and face me.”
“What on earth is taking place here?” Larry asked, looking around him. “And where is my hot water. I want to take a bath.”
The barkeep reached over the bar and pulled Larry to the far end of the long bar. “Shet your trap, boy,” he told Larry. “Lead’s a-fixin’ to fly.”
Charlie finished his drink and slowly set the glass on the bar. He turned around, his hands by his side. “Go home, boy,” he told Bobby. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”
“Well, you got it!” Bobby told him.
“Why?” Charlie asked. “I don’t know you. I never seen you before in my life. Why me?”
“ ’Cause I think you maybe believe you’re a gunhawk, that’s why.”
“Son, I was handlin’ guns years before you were born. Now why don’t you just sit down and finish yur drink, and I’ll just walk out the bats?”
“Yellow!” Bobby sneered at him. “The old man’s yellow. He’s afraid of Bobby Zones.”
Charlie smiled. “I never heard of you, Bobby. Are you lookin’ for a reputation? Is that it?”
“I got a rep!”
“I ain’t never seen none of your graveyards, boy.”
“You just ain’t looked in the right place. As far as that goes, where’s your graveyards?”
“All over the land, son. From Canada to Mexico. From Missouri to California.”
“You say!”
“That’s right, son. I say.”
Earl Sutcliffe pushed open the batwings and stood there, sizing up the situation. “What’s the trouble here?”
“Stay out of this, marshal,” Bobby said. “This is between me and this old goat here.”
“You know who that old goat is?” Earl asked.
“Don’t make no difference to me. I don’t like this old coot’s looks, and I told him so. He’s afraid of me.
Earl laughed. “Boy, that man is not afraid of anything. That’s Charlie Starr.”
Code of the Mountain Man Page 12
