“Money’s on the bar,” Smoke told him.
The man lumbered over, stopping a few feet from the table. The floor had trembled as he moved. Smoke figured him to be about six feet six inches tall and weighing maybe two hundred and seventy-five pounds.
“My name’s Tom Lilly,” the big man rumbled.
Smoke took a bite from his sandwich and said nothing.
“Are you deef!” Lilly hollered.
“I will be if you keep shouting,” Smoke told him. “Quiet down, will you?”
The man looked shocked. “You really tellin’ me what to do, cowboy?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. And you smell bad, too. Step back, before your breath contaminates the cheese.”
Tom was so shocked he was momentarily speechless. Nobody ever spoke to him in such a manner. A few had challenged him, years back, and he had broken their heads, their backs, or just simply and quickly stomped them to death. He had run this town with an iron hand-or fist—for several years; now this drifter shows up and starts with the mouth.
Finally Tom found his voice. “You better enjoy that sandwich, drifter. ’Cause it’s gonna be the last thing you’ll ever eat except my fist.”
Smoke shoved the square table with all his strength, one sharp corner catching Tom in the thigh and pushing through the cloth of the big man’s trousers, tearing a gouge in his leg. Tom screamed in pain and grabbed at his bleeding leg just as Smoke came around the table, picking up a sturdy chair during his brief journey. Smoke brought the chair down on Tom’s head, driving the man to his knees and destroying the chair. Using what was left of the chair back as a club, Smoke proceeded to rain blows on the bully, the wood ringing like a blacksmith’s hammer as Smoke bounced it against Tom’s head.
A crowd began to gather, both inside the saloon and on the boardwalk in front.
When Smoke had beaten the man unconscious, he tossed the club to the floor and dragged Tom Lilly across the floor and to the now open door. He dragged him across the boardwalk and dumped him in the street.
The citizens, male and female, stood and applauded Smoke as he walked back inside the saloon. The barkeep stood rooted behind the bar, disbelief and fear in his eyes. “Don’t kill me!” he finally squalled.
“He’s been Tom Lilly’s biggest supporter,” a tired-looking man said. “But he’s nothing. As soon as Tom’s men come back from making their collections around the area, you’re gonna be in real trouble, mister.”
“Collections?” Smoke asked.
“They claim to be protecting us,” a woman said, standing outside the saloon and speaking through the open door. No way a good woman would enter a saloon. “They showed up here about three years ago. Next thing we knew, our part-time marshal was dead and Tom and his bunch were running things.”
“Several tried to intervene,” a man said. “They come up dead or missing.”
“How many in Tom’s gang?” Smoke asked, knowing he had gotten himself into another situation.
“It varies. Anywhere from six to ten. Scum just seem to gather around the likes of Tom Lilly.”
“Oh, my Lord!” a woman cried. “Tom’s gettin’ to his feet.”
Smoke stepped out onto the boardwalk. By now, all had noticed the unusual way he wore his guns and pegged him as a gunfighter. The man from the livery stood on the fringe of the crowd and said nothing. But there was a big grin on his face.
With blood running down his face from the savage beating he’d just taken from Smoke, Tom Lilly staggered to his feet and swayed for a moment. “No man does this to me and lives,” Tom snarled the words. Then he grabbed for his gun.
6
Smoke’s draw was faster than the blink of an eye. He put a .44 slug into Tom’s arm, the slug breaking the bully’s elbow and rendering the arm useless. Tom screamed as the gun dropped back into leather. Smoke’s draw had been so fast Tom had been unable to clear his holster.
“Jesus,” a man said. He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Who in hell are you, mister?”
“A man who doesn’t like bullies,” Smoke told him.
“My arm’s ruint!” Tom bellowed. “You done crippled me.”
“You people do with him as you see fit,” Smoke told the crowd. The whole town had turned out; about a hundred people, including the dogs and cats.
“My boys’ll burn this damn town to the ground,” Tom yelled. “They’ll have their way with the women and kill the men. You people better wise up and run this drifter outta town and get me some medical help.”
“We’ll help you,” a man said, uncoiling a length of rope he’d taken from his saddle.
“I’ll be down the street at the cafe,” Smoke said. He walked back into the saloon and got his coat and hat. He looked at the barkeep. “If you have any sense at all, you’d better take to the air and don’t look back. The townspeople are gettin’ ready to hang Tom Lilly and they just might decide to string you up, too.”
“Who are you?” he stammered, his face sweat-shiny from fear.
“Smoke Jensen.”
The barkeep gulped a couple of times then hit the back door at a run. Seconds later, the sounds of a galloping horse filled the cool air.
“Now wait a minute!” Tom Lilly yelled. “You people can’t do this to me.”
“Shut up, Tom,” a woman told him. “Your days of bullying and killing are over.”
Smoke walked over to Beth’s Cafe and stepped inside.
“Get him up on that horse!” a man yelled, just as Smoke was closing the door. “Take him down to the hangin’ tree.”
“Goddamn you all to hellfire!” Tom screamed.
Smoke sat down by a front window and smiled at the lady behind the counter. “Coffee and a plate lunch,” he said. “Or would you rather go down and see the hanging first?”
“Just as long as Tom Lilly does get hanged,” she said. “He’s got about seven pretty bad ol’ boys due back in town right around noon. What are you going to do about them?”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Smoke told her. “Unless they crowd me. I think the townspeople will handle them.”
She brought him coffee. Smoke watched through the window as men armed with rifles began stationing themselves on roof tops.
“He ran the town through fear and intimidation,” Beth said from the kitchen. “He threatened to do terrible things to the kids. He would take a child’s pet and kill it with his bare hands, right in front of the children. He’s raped more than one woman. Tom Lilly is a horrible man.”
“Was,” Smoke said, as he watched the crowd of people come walking back up the wide street, leading a riderless horse. “Tom Lilly is swinging in the wind now.”
Beth placed his plate of food in front of him. “Got puddin’ for dessert.”
“Sounds good.” Smoke ate slowly of the thick stew and hot, fresh-baked bread laden with sweet butter. When he had finished, Beth brought him a big bowl of pudding and he topped that off with more coffee.
Riders galloped into town just as Smoke was sugaring his coffee. He rolled a cigarette and watched the men rein up in front of the saloon.
“Lilly’s men?” he asked.
“Yes. And a scummier bunch never sat a saddle.”
“I don’t think they’ll ever sit another saddle,” Smoke told her.
The words had hardly left his mouth before a dozen rifles smashed the mid-day air and seven bodies lay crumpled in the street, their blood staining the dirt.
“Town’s yours again,” Smoke said.
Smoke made his purchases that afternoon, and although the owner of the general store was curious about what the stranger bought, he asked no questions.
Smoke bought several hundred feet of rope, dynamite, caps, and fuses. He bought a rifle and several hundred rounds of .44’s, then bought a sawed-off shotgun and several boxes of shells. He carried his purchases back to the livery and packed it very carefully.
“Thanks for not spreading my name around town,” he told the liveryman.
; “I figured you wanted it that way. You got people on your backtrail, Smoke?”
“Yes. A big bunch of them.”
“They must be fools,” the man said.
“I haven’t figured out exactly what they are, to tell the truth. I’m trying to avoid a fight, and they just keep on coming at me.”
“I think,” the liveryman said drily, after seeing Smoke’s purchases, “them folks comin’ up behind you are gonna be awful sorry when they do catch up with you.”
Smoke had a long, hot bath-figuring this might be the last chance he’d have to take one for some time—and then a shave. He ate an early supper at the cafe but heard no mention of Tom Lilly nor his gang among the townspeople. It was a closed chapter in their lives and probably would never be discussed outside the home. There are an awful lot of people buried in unmarked graves throughout the west.
Smoke went to bed shortly after dark and was up long before dawn. The liveryman had his quarters in the big barn and had coffee boiling when Smoke climbed down from the loft.
“I ain’t fitten for nothin’ ’til I have my coffee,” the liveryman said. “Some folks say I’m plumb grouchy. I figured you for a coffee-drinkin’ man, too.”
“You figured right. What’s between here and the Montana line?”
“Damn little. Couple of old tradin’ posts is all.”
“That’s what I thought.” Smoke sipped his coffee and took a bite of the cold biscuit with a piece of salt meat in it the liveryman had offered. That meant that von Hausen would have to carry a lot of supplies with him, for once they passed this little settlement, there was nothing for a lot of long hard miles.
“You got a wicked look in your eyes,” the liveryman said.
“I got wicked thoughts in my head,” Smoke replied with a smile.
The liveryman went off to get the coffee pot and Smoke took that quiet time to think. The Tetons had been explored a half dozen times by the government, the last one being only a couple of years back. Settlers were now coming into that area, entering by way of the Gros Ventre River and Teton Pass. What the liveryman didn’t know was that two little villages were already established in that area; there might be more but if so, Smoke hadn’t heard of them. But once past the junction of the two narrow roads, just south of Pacific Creek, there was nothing except wilderness until you got up into Montana. And Smoke doubted that von Hausen and company had ever seen wilderness like where he was leading them.
“Tell the people in this town that while they might think they owe me, don’t refuse any type of service to this bunch that’ll be coming along the next day or two. They’re a bad bunch, so don’t cross them.”
“I understand, Smoke.”
“Be sure you do.” He shook hands with the man and saddled up. “See you around, partner,” he said from the saddle.
“See you around, Smoke.”
Smoke rode out into the cold early morning air and headed north.
Angel Cortez picked up Smoke’s trail on the west side of Salt River. Some rocks had been disturbed and that was enough to put the Mexican on the trail. Satisfied he had the right trail, Angel rode back to the main party and told them the news.
“Excellent!” von Hausen said.
“I know where he’s goin’, now,” John T. said. “Little settlement just a few miles north of here. Tom Lilly’s town, so I been told.”
Utah Red spat a stream of tobacco juice. “I bet it ain’t if Jensen rode through there.”
“No bets there,” John T. said, picking up the reins. “We’ll soon find out.”
The townspeople heeded Smoke’s warning, but they didn’t like it and made that very clear by having every man and woman in the town armed when von Hausen and party rode in. It made for quite a show of force.
“He’s been here,” John T. said glumly. “Don’t nobody make any quick moves or act hostile. Smoke’s done shoved some steel up these folks’ backbone and they gonna be quick on the shoot. You boys understand all that?”
They understood, and so did von Hausen and his party of adventurers.
“We’ll have us a bite to eat, conduct our business quietly, and we shall be gone in one hour,” von Hausen instructed.
“Probably be gone sooner than that,” Leo Grant told him. “They’s a closed sign in the cafe winder.” He looked at the abundance of sawed-off shotguns in the hands of grim-faced men and shuddered. He’d seen men cut in two with those things. Sickenin’ sight.
“Saloon’s closed, too,” Nat Reed observed. “I think that we’d just better tend to our business as quickly as possible and ride on.”
“I concur,” Gunter Balke said. “What say you, Frederick?”
“Yes. From the looks of things, this Tom Lilly, and I would assume his men too, are no longer around.”
“Oh, they’re around,” John T. said. “Six feet under.”
“Yonder’s the hangin’ tree,” Cosgrove said softly. “With the rope still on it.”
“Makes my throat hurt just lookin’ at it,” Paul Melham said. “I got an idea: why don’t the most of us just ride on through and we’ll be waitin’ for y’all outside of town? This is a stacked deck if I ever seen one. They’s men on rooftops with rifles, too.”
“Boss?” John T. looked at von Hausen.
“Yes. Good idea. Ride on. You men leading the pack animals stay to help load.”
Von Hausen’s stomach muscles knotted up when he led his group into the general store. There were men all around the store, all armed with sawed-off shotguns.
“We mean no harm to anyone,” Gunter said. “We just want to resupply and we’ll be gone within the hour.”
“Fine,” the owner of the general store said. “But you gonna find this mighty expensive shoppin’.”
Marlene looked at a freshly printed sign and smiled. Beans: $4.00 a lb. Taters: $6.00 a lb. Sugar: $15.00 a lb. Coffee: $20.00 a lb. And so on.
Von Hausen found the whole thing humorous and laughed when she pointed out the sign to him. “Obviously a depressed area, my dear. Let them have their fun. Spread our wealth among the colonials, so to speak. It’s good public relations, you know.”
They bought their supplies, paid for them, and were gone in thirty minutes. At the edge of town, Bob Hogan pointed out a row of fresh-dug graves, the mounds still muddy. “Smoke Jensen came through,” was all he had to say.
Frederick glanced at Hans and arched an eyebrow. “Formidable opponent,” he said, and rode on.
Ol’ Preacher talked about this country, and took Smoke through it when he was just a boy. The old mountain man told Smoke all about the rendezvous he’d attended in the Snake River country back in the early ’30’s. The event was held close to where three Wyoming rivers meet: the Snake, Greys, and Salt.
Smoke rode deeper into the High Lonesome, memories of Ol’ Preacher all around him. It seemed to Smoke that his friend and mentor was guiding him on.
After leaving the settlement, Smoke had angled over, crossed the Salt River Range, and followed the Greys up. He was not far from where the old mountain man, William Sublette, had reached a particularly beautiful and lonesome place and named it Jackson Hole, after another mountain man and close friend, David Jackson. Preacher had told him that was back in ’29, long before the damn settlers started coming in and civilizing everything they touched.
Five decades later, there were still damn few settlers in the area, but those hardy ones who had come, had stayed. The valley where Smoke was heading was approximately forty-eight miles long and about six to eight miles wide, with mountains pushing thousands of feet into the sky all around it and in it.
Smoke was going to test those following him. He was going to give them a little taste of what was in store for them if they persisted in hunting him clear up into the High Lonesome of northwest Wyoming, where the peaks pushed two-and-a-half miles into the sky and one misstep meant death.
Here in the hole is where he’d find out if those on his backtrail really meant to kill him. For if that was
true, he would leave some of them to be buried among the Aspen, Englemann spruce, Douglas fir and lodgepole pine. And where the mountain men used to join the wolves in their howling, lending their voices to the ever-sighing winds of the High Lonesome.
7
“Magnificent country,” Gunter said, riding in a valley between the towering mountains.
“Some of us will enjoy it for eternity, I think,” Angel said.
The words had hardly left his mouth when John T. called for a halt. Frederick rode up to the point. “What’s the matter?” the German asked.
John T. pointed to a strange design of rocks in the middle of the trail. “That’s the matter.”
“What does it mean?”
“That’s the Blackfoot sign for warning. Tellin’ us not to come any further.”
“Oh!” Marlene said, riding up. “Will we get to shoot some red wild Indians?”
“No Injun put that there, your ladyship,” John T. told her. “Smoke Jensen done that.”
“How do you know that?” Hans asked.
“See that little squirmly lookin’ thing off to one side? That’s the sign for smoke. He’s tellin’ us that from here on, the game is over.”
“Good, good!” Frederick said. “He’s throwing down the glove.” He dismounted and with his boots, kicked the strange assemblage of rocks apart.
“How will Smoke know we’ve picked up his challenge?” Gunter asked.
“ ’Cause he’s watchin’ us right now,” John T. said. “Bet on it.”
The howl of a wolf touched them, the quivering call echoing all around them.
Montana Jess looked at John T. “And there he is.”
“Yep. And there he is,” John T. said.
Frederick looked all around him. The silence of the deep timber was all he could feel and see. “Jensen!” he called. “Smoke Jensen! Your time has come to die. Not by a faster gun, but by a man who is much more intelligent than you. You’ll see, Jensen. You’ll see.”
Pursuit Of The Mountain Man Page 5
