Louis grinned. “I like to see a man with a healthy appetite.” He glanced at a thick layer of trail dust on Wells’s buckskin coat. “You have the look of a man a long time on the trail.”
“That’s a fact. All the way from Mexico, pretty near a month now.”
The waiter appeared and placed a coffee mug on the table, filled it with steaming black coffee from a silver server, and added some to Louis’s cup before setting the pot on the table. Wells pulled a cork from his whiskey bottle and poured a dollop of he amber liquid into his coffee. He offered the bottle to Louis, who shook his head.
Wells shrugged, blew on his coffee to cool it, and drank the entire cup down in one long draft. He leaned back, took his fixings out, and built himself a cigarette. Striking a lucifer on his boot, he lit the cigarette. He left it in his mouth while he spoke, squinting one eye against the smoke. “That’s might good coffee.” He refilled his cup and again topped it off with a touch of whiskey. “Shore beats that mesquite bean coffee I been drinking fer the last month.”
Louis nodded, reviewing in his mind what he had heard about the famous Joey Wells. Wells had been born in the foothills of Missouri. He was barely in his teens when he fought in the Civil War for the Confederate Army. Riding with a group called the Missouri Volunteers, he became a fearless, vicious killer, eagerly absorbing every trick of guerrilla warfare known from the mountain men and hillbillies he fought with. After Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, Wells’s group attempted to turn themselves in. They reported to a Union Army outpost and handed over their weapons, expecting to be sent home like other Confederate soldiers had been. Instead, the entire group was assassinated. All except Wells and a few others, who were late getting to the surrender site. From a hill nearby they watched their unarmed comrades being gunned down. Under the code of the Missouri Feud, they vowed to fight the Union to the death.
After Joey and his men perpetrated several raids upon unsuspecting Union soldiers and camps, killing viciously to fulfill their vow of vengeance, a group of hired killers and thugs known as the Kansas Redlegs was assigned to hunt down the remaining Missouri Volunteers. After several years of raids and counterraids, Joey was the last surviving member of his renegade group. It took him another year and a half, using every trick he had learned, to track down and kill all of the remaining Redlegs, over a hundred and fifty men. Along the way he became a legend, a figure mothers would use to scare their children into doing their chores, a figure men would whisper about around campfires at night. With each telling, his legend grew, magnified by penny dreadfuls and shilling shockers, until there was no place left in America for him to run to.
After the last Redleg lay dead at his feet, Joey was said to have gone to Mexico and set up a ranch there. Rumor had it the Texas Rangers had struck a bargain with him, vowing to leave him in peace if he stayed south of the border.
Louis fired up another cigar, sipped his coffee, and wondered what had happened to cause Wells to break his truce and head north to Colorado. Of course, he didn’t ask. In the West, sticking your nose in another’s business was an invitation to have someone shoot it off.
After his food was served, Wells leaned forward and ate with a single-minded concentration, not speaking again until his plate was bare. He filled his empty coffee cup with whiskey, built another cigarette, and leaned back with a contented sigh. Smoke floated from the butt in his mouth and caused him to squint as he stared at Louis from under his hat brim. “A while back, I met some fellahs down Chihuahua way tole me ‘bout a couple o’ friends of theirs in Colorado. One was named Longmont.”
Louis motioned to the waiter to bring him some brandy, then nodded, waiting for Wells to continue. “Yep. Said this Longmont dressed like a dandy and talked real fancy, but not to let that fool me. This Longmont was a real bad pistoleer and knew his way around a Colt, and was maybe the second-fastest man with a short gun they’d ever seen.”
Louis dipped the butt of his stogie in his brandy, then stuck it in his mouth and puffed, sending a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling. “These men say anything else?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Uh-huh. Said this Longmont would do ta ride the river with, and if’n he was yore friend, he’d stand toe ta toe with ya against the devil hisself if need be.”
Louis threw back his head and laughed. “Well, excusing your friends for engaging in a small amount of hyperbole, I suppose their assessment of my character is basically correct.”
Wells’s lips curled in a small smile. “Like they said, ya talk real purty.”
“And who was the other man your friends mentioned?”
“Hombre named Smoke Jensen. They said Jensen was so fast, he could snatch a double eagle off’n a rattler’s head and leave change ’fore the snake could strike.”
Louis drowned his quiet smile in coffee. “Your friends have quite a way with words themselves. Might I ask what their names are?”
“ ’Couple o’ Mexes named Louis Carbone and Al Martine. Got ’em a little ranchito down near Chihuahua.” Wells dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his boot. “They be pretty fair with short guns theyselves, fer Mexes.”
Louis nodded, remembering the last time he had seen Carbone and Martine. The pair had hired out their guns to a rotten, no-good back-shooter named Lee Slater. Slater bit off more than he could chew when he and his men rode through Big Rock, shooting up the town and raising hell. Problem was, they also wounded and almost killed Sally Jensen, Smoke’s wife. Smoke went after them, and in the end faced down the gang in the very streets of Big Rock, where it all started....
Lee Slater stepped out of the shadows, his hands wrapped around the butts of Colts, as were Smoke’s. “I’m gonna kill you, Jensen!” he screamed.
A rifle barked, the slug striking Lee in the middle of his back and exiting out the front. The outlaw gang leader lay dead on the hot, dusty street.
Sally Jensen stepped back into Louis’s gambling hall and jacked another round into her carbine.
Smoke smiled at her and walked down the boardwalk.
“Looking for me, amigo?” Al Martine spoke from the shadows of a doorway. His guns were in leather.
“Not really. Ride on, Al.”
“Why would you make such an offer to me? I am an outlaw, a killer. I hunted you in the mountains.”
“You have a family, Al?”
“Sí. A father and mother, brothers and sister, all down in Mexico.”
“Why don’t you go pay them a visit? Hang up your guns for a time?”
The Mexican smiled and finished rolling a cigarette. He lit it and held it to Smoke’s lips.
“Thanks, Al.”
“Thank you, Smoke. I shall be in Chihuahua. If you ever need me, send word, everybody knows where to find me. I will come very quickly.”
“I might do that.”
“Adios, compadre.” Al stepped off the boardwalk and was gone. A few moments later, Sheriff Silva and a posse rode up in a cloud of dust.
“That’s it, Smoke,” the sheriff announced. “It’s all over. You’re a free man, and all these other yahoos are gonna be behind bars.”
“Suits me,” Smoke said, and holstered his guns.
“No, it ain’t over! ” The scream came from up the street.
Everybody looked. Pecos stood there, his hands over the butts of his fancy engraved .45s.
“Oh, crap!” Smoke said.
“Don’t do it, kid!” Louis Carbone called from the boardwalk. “It’s over. He’ll kill you, boy.”
“Hell with you, you greasy son of a bitch!” Pecos yelled.
Carbone stiffened, cut his eyes to Smoke.
“Man sure shouldn’t have to take a cut like that, Carbone,” Smoke told him.
Carbone stepped out into the street, his big silver spurs jingling. “Kid, you can insult me all day. But you cannot insult my mother.”
Pecos laughed and told him what he thought about Carbone’s sister too.
Carbone shot him before the
Kid could even clear leather. The Pecos Kid died in the dusty street of a town that would be gone in ten years. He was buried in an unmarked grave.
“If you hurry, Carbone,” Smoke called, “I think you can catch up with Martine. Me and him smoked a cigarette together a few minutes ago, and he told me he was going back to Chihuahua to visit his folks.”
Carbone grinned and saluted Smoke. A minute later he was riding out of town, heading south.3
* * *
Louis grinned at the memory. Carbone and Martine had been given a second chance at life through the generosity of Smoke Jensen. He hoped they took advantage of it. “How are Carbone and Martine doing?”
Wells shrugged. “Pretty fair. Ain’t much fer ranchin’ though. Spend most of their time drinkin’ tequila and shaggin’ every señorita within a hundred miles, most of the señoras too, I ’spect.”
Louis laughed again. “That would certainly be like Al and Louis all right.”
“They said they owed you and Jensen a debt of honor fer how you all helped them out a while back.” Wells reached into a leather pouch slung over his shoulder on a rawhide thong.
Louis tensed, his hand moving toward his Colt. Wells noticed the motion and shook his head slightly. “Don’t you worry none, Mr. Longmont. I ain’t here to do you or your’n any harm. I’m jest deliverin’ somethin’ fer Carbone and Martine. A token o’ their ’preciation, they called it.”
He opened his pouch and took out a set of silver spurs with large, pointed-star rowels and hand-tooled leather straps, and a large shiny Bowie knife with a handle inlaid with silver and turquoise. “The knife’s fer Jensen, the spurs are fer you.”
Louis was about to tell Wells thanks, when the batwings opened and two men cradling Greener ten-gauge shotguns stepped through the door.
Chapter 4
Wells straightened and half rose from his chair, his hands hovering over his Colts until Louis put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s all right, Joey, they’re friends of mine. You’re in no danger in my establishment.”
As Wells sat back down, Sheriff Monte Carson and his deputy, Jim, approached their table. “Everything all right here, Louis?” Monte asked, his thumb on the hammer of his Greener.
“Certainly, Monte. Why do you ask?”
“A couple of punchers came over to the jail and said Joey Wells was in town and drew down on ’em. They said it looked to them like he was loaded for bear and had some business with you.”
Louis smiled reassuringly at Monte. “Unhand those scatterguns and you and Jim join us for some coffee. Mr. Wells here and I were just having a pleasant conversation about Louis Carbone and Al Martine.”
“Carbone and Martine? Last I heard, those two reprobates were down in Mexico, tryin’ to raise longhorns.” He chuckled. “You got to be smart as a rock to try and herd longhorns.”
“About all they seem to be raising at the present time is hell, according to Mr. Wells,” Louis said.
Monte fixed his gaze on Wells. “Mr. Wells, I’m Monte Carson, sheriff of Big Rock, and this is my deputy, Jim Morris.” He gave a half smile. “I hope we’re gonna be friends, and that you’re not planning any . . . excitement here in my town.”
Wells stared back at Monte, his gaze unflinching. “Sheriff, I been on horseback fer over a month now, an’ the only excitement I plan is ta find a bed fer me an’ a rubdown an’ some grain fer my hoss.”
“I hope you won’t take offense at my nosiness, but just what brings you to Big Rock?”
Wells hesitated. A private man, he wasn’t used to discussing his affairs with strangers. After a moment he glanced at Louis and shrugged. “No offense taken, sir,” he said to Monte. “I reckon it’s yore job and ya got a right ta ask.” He took a small drink of his whiskey and began to make a cigarette as he talked, his eyes on his hands as he folded the paper and sprinkled tobacco on it from a small cloth sack. “ ’Bout six weeks back a group of Mexican Rurales and half-breed Mescalero Apaches raided my ranch down in Mexico, jest ’cross the border from Del Rio.” He screwed the butt in the corner of his mouth and lit it, then raised his eyes to Monte’s. “They killed two of my hands an’ wounded my wife and son an’ stole twenty of my beeves.”
Jim blurted out, eyes wide, “They shot yore wife and kid?” His surprise came from the fact that in the West, women were treated with respect and deference by most cowboys. Men had been known to be shot or hanged for merely treating a woman with disrespect, and the thought of involving wives and children in feuds between menfolk was unthinkable to most citizens.
“Yeah. Soon’s the raiders was gone, I took Betty and little Tom ‘crost the Rio Bravo into Del Rio and had the doc there patch ’em up.” Wells looked down at his hands, clenched white-knuckled on the table before him. “Still don’t know if’n my boy’s gonna be able to walk. They shattered his leg bone with a rifle bullet.”
“How many were there that attacked you?” asked Louis.
“Thirty, maybe thirty-five.” Wells gave a tight smile. “I was a mite too busy to count ’em at the time. They left six fer the buzzards ta eat at my place.”
When Wells paused, Monte asked, “That why you’re up this way?”
“Yep. After I got my kin taken care of, I tracked the murderin’ bastards ta a town called Bracketville, where they sold my cattle. One of ’em stayed behind to sample the nightlife, an’ he tole me he an’ the others had been hired by a man name of Murdock ta work at a ranch over ta Pueblo, Colorado. Seems this Murdock won the ranch in a crooked poker game just ‘fore he was run outta Texas by some Rangers who didn’t like his back-shootin’ ways.”
Monte frowned. “I’ve heard of Jacob Murdock. The ex-sheriff of Pueblo is a friend of mine. He says Murdock is crooked as a snake’s trail. According to my friend, Murdock’s men threatened to kill the townspeople if they didn’t vote for his kid brother, Sam Murdock, for sheriff.” Monte waved at the waiter, held up two fingers, and pointed at the coffeepot.
Jim said, “That’s be Ben Tolson?”
“Yeah. Ben tole me that ever since Murdock took over the ranch, the Lazy M he calls it, there’s been complaints of cattle and calves missing and turning up on Murdock’s spread.”
Wells paid close attention as Monte spoke. One of the lessons he’d learned in his years as a hunted outlaw was to gather as much information about his opponents as he could. He had a term for it. He called it “having an edge.” He knew he had beaten men as fast as, and maybe faster with a gun than he was. He did it by always making sure he had an edge; the sun at his back and in the other’s eyes, an element of surprise, or just the simple fact he always made sure to have grain to feed his big roan stallion instead of hay. He had outrun and outlasted many a pursuer, because grain gives a horse more “bottom,” the ability to run longer, while hay-fed mounts give out.
“Didn’t Tolson investigate the complaints?” Louis asked.
“Sure,” Monte answered. “But witnesses against Murdock had a nasty habit of gettin’ themselves killed before they could testify against him, and ’fore long Ben was out of a job.” Monte cut his eyes to Wells. “You got a tough row to hoe if you’re plannin’ to go up against Murdock, especially if he’s got thirty new gun hawks on his payroll and his brother as sheriff.”
Wells shrugged, patting his Colt Navy in his shoulder holster. “Don’t matter none ta me. Better men than this Murdock been tryin’ ta plant me fer years.” His eyes grew hard and seemed to change color, causing the hair on the back of Monte’s neck to stir. “I’m still forked end down an’ all of them are food fer worms.”
Wells looked up, eyes narrowed as the batwings opened and a man entered. Dressed in buckskin shirt and trousers, wearing a brace of Colt .44s tied down low, the left-hand gun butt forward, he stopped just inside the door and paused to let his eyes adjust to the semidarkness, just as Wells had before. He was a few inches over six feet tall, with massive shoulders and arms straining his buckskin shirt. His eyes were blue as spring skies and cold as winter ice, and his
hair was blond. Wells knew without asking he was looking at Smoke Jensen, a man as famous, and as deadly, as he was.
As Smoke approached their table, Louis smiled and gestured. “Howdy, Smoke. Come join us.”
Smoke stood there, his eyes appraising Wells, while he waited to be introduced. He nodded greetings to Monte and Jim as Louis said, “Smoke Jensen, meet Mr. Joey Wells.”
Wells stood, his head reaching only to the middle of Smoke’s chest. He stuck out his hand. “Pleased ta meet cha, Mr. Jensen.”
Smoke’s big hand swallowed Wells’s. “Likewise, Mr. Wells.” He hesitated, then said with a serious expression, “If only half of what I’ve heard about you is true, I hope your visit to Big Rock is a social one.”
Wells nodded. “I’ve heard a mite about ya too.” He picked up the Bowie knife from the table and handed it to Smoke. “Louis Carbone and Al Martine send their regards.”
Smoke took the knife, turning it over in his hands, admiring its workmanship. “Carbone and Martine, huh?”
“Yeah. Said this was ta remind ya they still owe ya a debt, an’ ta let ’em know if’n ya ever need ’em.”
Smoke hooked another chair from a nearby table with his boot and pulled it over. The waiter appeared with a fresh pot of coffee and a handful of mugs. While they drank their coffee, Smoke and Wells talked cattle talk, discussing the difficulties of raising longhorns in Mexico and shorthorns in Colorado. From their conversation, one would never know they were two of the most feared gunfighters in the territory.
Wells managed a laugh or two when Smoke and Louis recounted some tales of Carbone’s and Martine’s exploits during the Lee Slater fracas of a few years back. Smoke got the feeling Wells hadn’t had much to laugh about for some time. He also found, to his surprise, he liked the man. Wells was straightforward, with none of the arrogance or swagger seen in most shootists Smoke had met.
After a while, saying they had rounds to make, Monte and Jim left. While Smoke ate his breakfast, Louis gave him a short version of why Wells came to Colorado.
Honor of the Mountain Man Page 5
