Honor of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “He ain’t gonna like that much.”

  Smoke looked at Joey. “You care what Mr. Murdock likes or don’t like?”

  Joey’s lips curled in a half smile as he stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lit it. “Not enough so’s ya can tell it.”

  The gun hawk’s face blushed red, and his right hand dropped near the handle of his pistol, fingers flexing.

  Joey’s smile faded and his eyes narrowed, cold and intent as a rattler’s about to strike. “Cowboy, ya wanna live ta see tomorrow, you trot over there like a good little dog an’ tell yore boss what we said.” His shoulders moved in a small shrug. “Otherwise, make yore play an’ I’ll kill ya where ya stand. Makes no difference ta me either way.”

  The man saw death in Joey’s eyes, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. With a mumbled curse he spun on his heel abruptly and stalked back across the room toward Murdock. They talked for a moment before Murdock smiled, shaking his head. He picked up his whiskey and walked to their table, followed by his two guards.

  “Mr. Jensen, Mr. Wells, I’m Jacob Murdock. I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Smoke nodded. “We know who you are, Murdock. You’re welcome to sit and chat, but send your trained dogs there back to your table. We don’t want them stinking up our end of the room.”

  One of the men stepped forward, but Murdock stopped him with an outstretched arm. “Well, I can see you are as tough as your reputation makes you out to be, Mr. Jensen.”

  Joey smiled insolently. “Yeah, he was born with the bark on, all right.”

  Murdock inclined his head at his men, sending them back to his table to wait for him. He took a seat and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Mr. Wells, Mr. Jensen, I’d like to propose a toast. To ... the possibility of a mutually profitable business venture.” He held up his glass.

  Smoke and Joey glanced at each other, then back at Murdock. Neither man picked up his glass. “Before we go to drinkin’ together, Murdock, why don’t ya git ta the meat of the thing? Say what ya came here to say, plain an’ simple,” Joey said.

  Murdock looked unsure of himself, his eyes darting back and forth between Smoke and Joey, his fat fingers nervously twisting the hair of his sideburns.

  He raised his glass to drink, and Smoke noticed his hand was trembling slightly. An expert at reading men, Smoke knew this to be a sure sign of a coward, nervous without his gun hands to back his play. Smoke glanced at Joey, knowing he realized it too.

  “When Ben Tolson over there told me who you were, I got to wondering why two famous pistoleers had come to Pueblo, and why you are interested in buying a ranch out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  Smoke and Joey remained silent, leaning back in their chairs, sipping their whiskey and smoking, neither bothering to reply.

  Murdock, confronted by silence, cleared his throat, dropping his eyes to stare at his drink. “If it’s work you’re looking for, I’m paying triple wages to men who know how to handle a gun.” He raised his gaze, a hopeful expression on his face. “I’m planning on building the biggest spread in these parts, and I can make you rich.” He hesitated, then added, “And if you’re not partial to ranching, my brother is sheriff of Pueblo now, and I feel sure he can always use a couple of men who are good with their guns.”

  Joey snorted. “Smoke’s already rich, Murdock. He could buy and sell ya ten times over without breakin’ a sweat.” He shrugged. “As fer me workin’ fer ya or yore worthless little shit of a brother, if I saw either one of ya on fire, I wouldn’t piss on ya to put ya out!”

  Murdock looked stunned. It was obvious few men had the courage to talk to him in this fashion. He scowled, glancing at Smoke. “Them your feelings too, Jensen?”

  Smoke dropped his cigar into Murdock’s whiskey glass and leaned forward, speaking loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Let me be frank with you, Murdock. Joey and I don’t have any use for men like you. To us, you’re lower than pond scum. Not only do you rob and steal what other men have spent their entire lives building, but you’re too cowardly to do it yourself. You hire stupid men who are as worthless as you to do your dirty work.” He stuck a finger in Murdock’s face. “Joey and I intend to put you out of business, Murdock. We’re going to take everything you’ve got and give it back to the people you stole it from.”

  Murdock’s face reddened and his head snapped back as if he had been slapped. As he opened his mouth to reply, Joey interrupted to say in a loud voice, “An’ ya kin tell those bastards that ride fer your brand that if’n they git in our way, we’ll kill every mother’s son of ’em.”

  Murdock’s eyes narrowed. “You talk awfully big for just two men,” he snarled.

  Smoke smiled. “Oh, two men?” He stood and glanced around the saloon at the cowboys, who were silent, listening to what was being said. “People of Pueblo,” he called in a loud voice, “I’m Smoke Jensen, and my partner here is Joey Wells.” He smiled at the reaction on the punchers’ faces when they recognized his and Joey’s names. “We intend to buy the Williams spread when it comes up for auction and we’re going to be hiring hands in the morning.” He started to sit, then stood back up. “Oh, and incidentally, we also intend to shut Mr. Murdock’s operation down and send his ass back where he came from, him and that sorry bastard of a brother of his. If you boys know anyone that kind of work would appeal to, send ’em over to the hotel at nine in the morning.”

  Before Smoke could sit down, Murdock’s two bodyguards jumped up from their table and grabbed iron. Murdock dove out of his chair onto the floor as Smoke and Joey drew their Colts in the blink of an eye and fired.

  Though spectators would argue for weeks over who fired first, the big .44s exploded as one, the slugs taking the two gunmen in their chests and blowing them backward to land spread-eagle on the table, their pistols still in holsters. The action was over so fast, Ben Tolson didn’t have time to raise his shotgun before the echoing blasts died away.

  Smoke looked down at Murdock sprawled cowering on the floor, his hands covering his head. Smoke nudged him none too gently with his boot. “I think it’s time you went on home, Murdock, and tell your boys we’ll be seeing them.”

  Murdock scrambled to his feet and took one look at the ruined bodies of his gunnies. “That was cold-blooded murder! I’ll see that the sheriff hangs the both of you.”

  Smoke looked around at the crowded saloon. “Anybody here see us murder anyone, or was it self-defense?”

  Several of the cowboys, evidently no friends of Murdock’s, spoke up. “They drawed on you first, mister. We all seen it.”

  Another man, awe in his voice, said, “At least, they tried to draw first.”

  Murdock muttered a curse and stomped out of the saloon, his eyes glaring hate at the men in the room.

  Smoke and Joey sauntered over to the two dead men. Smoke’s bullet had taken his man square in the heart, while Joey’s was a couple of inches to the center, having entered the man’s breastbone and blown out his spine.

  Smoke grinned as he punched out his brass and reloaded. “Looks like your aim was off a tad, Joey.”

  Joey made a disgusted face. “Yeah, ’course, I did git off the first shot.”

  Smoke laughed. “Oh, is that so?”

  Tolson walked up, shaking his head. “Mary Mother of Christ, I never seen nothin’ so fast in all my born days. You men are quick as greased lightnin’! Them boys didn’t even clear leather ’fore they was dead.”

  * * *

  Jacob Murdock was as mad as he could ever remember being. He was pacing his study, cursing under his breath, while Vasquez and one of his men who had some medical training were trying to put stitches in Garcia’s face so he wouldn’t bleed to death.

  As Murdock reached for his decanter of bourbon, he heard the fat Mexican scream, “Madre de Dios . . . ”Serves the fat bastard right, thought Murdock, letting a little sawed-off runt like that Joey Wells beat the shit out of him.

  After a moment Vasquez sauntered i
nto the room. “I think he will live, but it will be some time before he ride and shoot again.”

  Murdock whirled and pointed his finger at Vasquez. “Tell the stupid son of a bitch that he’ll get no pay until he’s fit to work again!”

  Vasquez’s eyes narrowed, but all he said was “As you wish, señsor.” After a moment he lowered his eyes, walked to Murdock’s desk, took a fat cigar out of his humidor, and rolled it as he slid it under his nose. “Ah, es muy bueno.” He struck a lucifer on his pistol butt and lit the cigar, then poured some of Murdock’s whiskey into a crystal goblet.

  He dropped onto a couch, put his feet up on a small table in front of the sofa, and sat there, smoking and drinking and watching Murdock pace.

  Murdock took a deep drink of his bourbon and said, “I thought you told me these men you hired are all tough hombres.”

  Vasquez shrugged. “They are plenty tough, señor. But that does not mean that there are not men who are tougher, or most fast with pistols.” He narrowed his eyes. “I do not think I seen anyone faster than those two gringos tonight.” He shrugged again and upended his glass, drinking it dry. “Of course, fast is no good against many guns at one time, or against guns one cannot see. I will take care of these mens, do not worry.”

  Murdock stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray on his desk. “Don’t worry? How can I not worry? The auction of the Williams ranch is tomorrow morning. What if this crazy man does what he says and buys the ranch?”

  Vasquez stood and stretched and yawned. “I said, do not worry, señor. Your brother and his men will be there, and I and my men will be there. This Smoke Jensen and Joey Wells may be fast with las pistolas, but they are not loco enough to go up against all of us tomorrow. You will see.”

  Murdock finished his bourbon and turned red, fearful eyes on Vasquez. “You better be right, Emilio, you better be right.”

  Chapter 9

  By the time Joey and Smoke finished breakfast the next morning, there were over thirty cowboys lined up outside the hotel, looking for work. They hadn’t seen anything of Sheriff Sam Murdock yet, and figured he and his men were waiting until they could make their play in a nonpublic place. There were just too many witnesses to the gunplay the night before for Sam Murdock to try and arrest them.

  Smoke left Joey to do the hiring while he walked to the train depot to meet Cal and Pearlie. He hated to admit it, but only two days into their scheme to dethrone Murdock he was already sick of being in a city. Smoke had been a mountain man for about as long as he could remember, and more than two or three days without being on horseback up in his beloved high lonesome and he became homesick. He grunted, thinking to himself he also missed lying next to Sally at night in their own bed at Sugarloaf.

  The train pulled into the station with squealing brakes and great hissing clouds of steam, its whistle echoing a mournful scream. Smoke walked back along the tracks until he came to the livestock car. It had two-by-four boards with spaces between and mounds of hay on the floor. Just as he got there, the big door was slid back and Cal and Pearlie jumped down, shouting, “Hey, boss, we made it!”

  Sprigs of hay stuck out of their hair and they were dusty and covered with soot, their shirts showing many small holes where hot cinders from the engine had burned through, but they seemed very happy to have arrived. “Whoo-eee, Smoke,” Cal shouted, “you should have seen us move! That engine was flying as fast as the wind on the down slopes.” He shook his head and sleeved sweat and dust off his forehead. “I never traveled so fast in all my born days.”

  Smoke grinned and shook the boys’ hands. “Glad you made it okay. How are the horses . . . any trouble?”

  “Naw,” Pearlie drawled, “not too much. Horse did okay, but that Red of Joey’s is a snake-eyed bronc, all right.”

  “Oh?”

  Cal snickered. “Seems as how Pearlie’s got hisself a scar or two now.”

  Pearlie shoved Cal. “Listen, pup, I’m still ramrod of Sugarloaf, an’ don’t you forgit it an’ let yore mouth overload yore butt.”

  “What happened?” asked Smoke, smiling at the young men’s play.

  Pearlie shrugged. “Nuthin’. I bought me a sack o’ apples at the stop at Junction City an’ gave one to each of our horses and kept a couple for me and Cal.” He looked over his shoulder at the big red roan’s nose, which was sticking through the spaces in the side of the boxcar, sniffing him. “Ol’ Red there, he musta figgered since he was the biggest, he deserved more than just one apple.”

  Cal couldn’t wait. “You should’ve seen it, Smoke. One minute Pearlie was liftin’ that apple toward his mouth an’ the next the apple and Pearlie’s arm up to the elbow was in Red’s mouth. If’n Pearlie’d been any slower, we’d be callin’ him lefty now.”

  Smoke bit his lip to keep from laughing at the mental image of the young man trying to get the big red horse to let his arm go. “He hurt you any?”

  Pearlie’s face flamed as he gave Cal a look that would peel varnish off a table. “Naw, he wasn’t tryin’ to hurt me, he was jest hungry.”

  Smoke whistled and Horse came to the open door of the car, snuffling and nickering at the sound of his master’s call. “Get that ramp set up and let’s get these mounts out and let them walk off their stiffness.”

  Soon the three men were leading their horses toward the livery stable, while Cal and Pearlie stared around at the town with wide, wondering eyes. “Smoke, I ain’t never seen so many people in one place at one time,” whispered Cal.

  “Me neither,” said Pearlie. “They’s packed together like beeves in a corral at brandin’ time. Seems to me they’d git on each other’s nerves, livin’ so close together all the time.”

  Smoke nodded. “Quite often they do, Pearlie. There aren’t many days go by that several of them aren’t killed by their neighbors.” He glanced around at the teeming crowds of people, horses, wagons, and buckboards jostling along the streets and boardwalks. “That’s why I like the high lonesome so much. If God wanted man to live like ants, all swarming over one another, He wouldn’t have made so much space and so few people.”

  They arrived at the livery and made arrangements for their horses to be boarded, specifying a daily rubdown and grain to be available for them at all times.

  On the way to the hotel, Pearlie asked Smoke if he thought the dining room might still be open. “I swear, Smoke, I must’ve lost four or five pounds on that train. I ain’t eaten a decent meal since I left Sugarloaf.”

  “We’ll see if the cook there can’t scare you up a dozen eggs and some bacon and biscuits,” Smoke answered.

  Pearlie held up his hand with his thumb and index finger two inches apart. “And maybe a small steak, an’ some taters, fried like Louis Longmont’s cook André does ’em?”

  Smoke laughed. “Yeah, but remember, we’re here to buy a ranch, and I can’t have you eating up all our money before it goes up for sale.”

  * * *

  In the hotel dining room, while Cal and Pearlie shoveled in groceries like they hadn’t eaten in a week, Smoke filled them in on the events of the night before at the saloon.

  “Jiminy,” exclaimed Cal, eyes wide, “I’d give a month’s wages to have seen that!”

  Joey squinted at the young puncher through smoke trailing from the cigarette in his mouth. “If’n it’s gunplay yore wantin’ ta see, Cal boy, you’ll git yore fill of it ’fore this fracas is over. Jacob Murdock and his brother don’t strike me as men ta take kindly ta our messin’ up their plans.”

  Smoke nodded, his expression serious. “Joey’s right. Murdock’s a back-shooter if I’ve ever seen one.” He glanced around the table at his friends. “From now on, we better all ride with our guns loose, loaded up six and six. I want us to travel in pairs, with one watching the other’s back. I figure either Murdock’s men or the sheriff and his deputies will make another play at us before the auction tomorrow, and I want us to be ready for it.”

  Joey motioned for the waiter to bring another round of coffee. “When do ya
think it’ll happen, Smoke?”

  “My guess is he’ll wait until it’s dark, then send some men to call on us while we’re asleep. He won’t dare do anything in the open, not till his back’s up against a wall.” He leaned forward, speaking low. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do ...”

  * * *

  At two o’clock in the morning, with heavy storm clouds scudding across the sky and obscuring the moon, the hotel was quiet. Two men walked their horses into the alley between the hotel and a dry goods store. Silent as ghosts, they climbed up to stand on their saddles and pulled themselves onto the balcony that circled the second story of the building. Tiptoeing quietly, they unlimbered shotguns from rawhide straps on their backs and eared back the hammers.

  At the end of the balcony they peered into the open window of the room supposed to be occupied by Smoke and Joey. In the darkness they could just make out two forms lying covered on the beds in the room and could see gun belts and hats hung on bedposts and boots standing next to the beds.

  Jesse Salazar looked at his friend and grinned widely, his gold tooth gleaming in the sparse moonlight reflected off the clouds. The other man nodded, and they aimed their scatterguns at the forms under the covers and fired four barrels of buckshot into the rooms, shredding sheets and mattresses and blowing bed frames into kindling wood.

  Surrounded by billowing clouds of cordite gun smoke, they laughed and began to run back down the balcony to where they left their mounts.

  The two assassins stopped abruptly when they saw four men standing side by side, watching them.

  “Evenin’, gents. You lookin’ fer us?” drawled Joey Wells.

  Salazar screamed, “Madre de Dios” as he dropped his shotgun and grabbed for his pistol.

  Four Colts boomed, spitting flame and smoke and shattering the stillness of the night. Salazar took two bullets in the chest from Smoke and one in the throat from Cal. His accomplice was hit twice in the belly by Pearlie, and twice in the face by Joey, once between the eyes, and one bullet entered his open mouth and exited out the back of his head, taking most of his brains with it. Both Salazar and his partner were blown off the balcony to fall spinning to the ground, dead before they hit the dirt.