Ordeal of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke rapped Brandon in the mouth again and pivoted sideways to Willie, cocked back at the hips and drew up his right leg. When Willie Finch charged within range, Smoke unleashed that leg in a lightning strike. The flat of Smoke’s boot sole caught Willie in the belly. Its force drove the boy back, doubled over, cheeks puffed out by the force of the wind knocked from him. Thin, green, bitter gorge rose up from his throat and spilled onto his shirt. Darkness danced before his eyes. Smoke turned back to young Kelso. Grinning, he made inviting gestures to draw the lout in closer.

  “C’mon, you want more, don’t you?”

  “You bet your butt, mister. I ain’t afraid of you.”

  “You ought to be,” Smoke advised him.

  “Oh, yeah? What for?”

  Smoke shook his head sadly. “You just don’t get it, do you? I’ve killed a hundred better men than you’ll ever grow up to be. Now, get out of here, you little turd, before I break something serious.”

  “Like hell!”

  By then, Willie Finch had recovered his courage and leaped on Smoke’s back. Momentarily pinning Smoke’s arms to his sides, he yelled in the gunfighter’s ear. “I got him, Bran. I got him good.”

  Danny Collins found his nerve and waded in also. He landed two good blows to Smoke’s side and belly; then Brandon was there. Before the leader of this collection of misfits could swing, he received one of Smoke’s kicks. This one square in the crotch. With a shrug, Smoke broke Willie’s hold and flung the thin boy away to slam into the front of the barbershop. With a soft groan, Willie slid down the clapboard wall of the tonsorial parlor.

  Smoke turned at once to make a quick end of Danny Collins. He did it with a pair of swift, hard punches to the boy’s face. Danny groaned and went down like he had been shot. Smoke gave his attention to Brandon Kelso.

  Bent over, Brandon wheezed, gagged and moaned in blind agony. Knock-kneed with pain, he walked like a shackled duck toward escape across the far side of the street. Smoke Jensen stalked after him and closed in four swift strides. He put a hard hand on one shoulder and spun Brandon Kelso to face him.

  Soft, deadly menace rang in Smoke’s voice. “The lady is waiting for an apology.”

  “No—” sputter-wheeze—“way I’ll do that.”

  “You want more, then?”

  For the first time, Brandon’s belligerence broke. He winced and cringed away from Smoke’s intimidation. “No. No, man. But I ain’t gonna apologize.”

  Smoke took Brandon’s nose between his left index and middle finger and squeezed. With a good yank, he brought the lout along with him to where Virginia Parkins stood, hands over her eyes. Smoke tipped his hat and spoke politely.

  “Ma’am, this pitiful piece of human garbage has something to say to you.”

  “No, I ...” Smoke squeezed the nose. “Eeeh—eeeh! Yes-yes. I’m sure sorry we busted up your stuff, Miz Parkins.”

  “And you will pay for their replacement, right?”

  Another tweak of the nose. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  “Dig it out, then.”

  Brandon Kelso fought back tears as he reached into his pocket. He brought out a fistful of coins. Smoke looked up at Virginia Parkins and then cut his eyes to her ruined purchases. “How much did this cost you, ma’am?”

  She told him, and Smoke plucked the proper amount from Brandon’s open hand. He handed it to Ginny, then turned Brandon by his nose and planted a boot across the junior thug’s buttocks and sent him on his way. He returned to the boardwalk and looked up to see the mayor standing, openmouthed, staring at him. Smoke reached out his hand.

  “Well, Mr. Mayor, I think I’ll take that badge you offered. Looks like you have a need here, right enough.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jensen, thank you from the bottom of my heart. But—what about your herd.”

  Smoke Jensen looked beyond the mayor to see his top hand standing there grinning. “Jerry, you take the herd on for a few days. I’ll catch up before the end of the week.”

  “Right, boss. Say, you do good work, Smoke.”

  Mayor Norton led the way to the sheriffs office and jail. There he showed Smoke around and further explained the situation in Muddy Gap. In particular he apprised Smoke of the names of the local boys he had taken down a notch minutes earlier. While they talked, Boyne Kelso stormed into the room. Fury exploded out of him.

  “Mayor, I demand that the man who beat up my son and robbed him be arrested at once.” He cut his eyes from Norton to Smoke, noted the badge and jabbed a long finger at him. “Well? What are you waiting for? If you’re the new lawman I’ve heard about, you had better start earning your keep. I want that saddle bum arrested and jailed.”

  Smoke provided him a sarcastic grin. ’I’m afraid that is impossible. You see, I’m that ‘saddle bum.’ ”

  Kelso’s jaw sagged a moment, then he regained his self-righteous outrage. “Lester, I can’t believe you’ve hired a thief to replace Sheriff Hutchins.”

  “I haven’t,” Mayor Norton told him blandly. “This is Smoke Jensen. He is a former deputy U.S. marshal. And your boy was tormenting Miss Ginny.”

  “I don’t believe it. Brandon is a good boy. He would never do such a thing.”

  Smoke took it up. “You had better believe it, Mr. Kelso. He and two other oafs assaulted the schoolteacher, took her packages from her and destroyed the contents. When your brat made to strike her, I intervened. The money I took was to replace what they had destroyed.”

  Indignation filled Kelso. “You can’t do this. I’m Boyne Kelso. And, my son is ... my son.”

  Smoke’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you implying that you, too, assault women and ravage their property?”

  Astounded, Kelso’s mouth worked for a second before he could find words. “What impudence. I’m warning you . . .”

  Smoke moved like a striking rattler. He crossed the short space between himself and Kelso with two strides and took the outraged man by the front of his shirt. With seemingly no effort, he shoved the portly body back against the closed door with enough force to knock the air from the blustering Kelso.

  No, Mr. Kelso, I’m warning you. If that misbegotten piece of garbage you call your son so much as spits on the boardwalk, I’ll coldcock him with my Colt and drag him to jail. From here on, he—and you—will be on the best possible behavior. Now get out of here and let me do my job.”

  Once Smoke saw the horses on their way, he waded into cleaning up Muddy Gap. His first target was the saloon out of which the drunken trash had come to join in tormenting the attractive young schoolteacher. Word had preceded him, Smoke discovered the moment he entered the barroom.

  “Well, what do we got here?” a truculent voice demanded as Smoke strode through the batwings.

  “Looks like somebody who don’t have any business here,” a tall, burly saddle tramp gritted. “Why don’t you jist turn around and git the hell out?”

  Smoke centered on him. His left arm extended, he shot an accusatory finger at the pugnacious thug. “I want your name. Now!”

  Grinning in anticipation of a good brawl, the lout answered. “Rafer Diggins. I’m the meanest, toughest, woolliest he-coon in these parts.”

  Blandly, Smoke told him, “I doubt that.”

  With that in the mix, Rafer Diggins let out a roar and charged Smoke Jensen.

  Five

  Rafer Diggins saw himself as larger than life. A brawler since his early teens, he had never been bested since the day he walloped his brutal, drunken father and ran away from home. A man who stood a good three inches shorter and at least thirty pounds lighter would be an easy mark. Or so thought Rafer Diggins when he launched himself away from the bar.

  A laughing companion shouted encouragement. “Go git him, Rafe.”

  Rafe puffed himself up on fighting rage and deep breaths as he closed on Smoke. The brawny barroom tough cocked a ham fist back by his ear, prepared to knock the lights out of this lawdog. Grinning, Smoke Jensen waited for it.

  When the punch
came, Smoke did not move his body. He jinked his head to the side, and the fist whistled past. Then he unloaded with a low, right uppercut. It buried to the wrist in the beer gut that leaned vulnerably toward him.

  Diggins had time for one groan as his eyes bulged and the air gusted out of his lungs. Then Smoke laid a hard left to the side of the bigger man’s jaw. Stars exploded before Rafe Diggins’ eyes as his feet went out from under him and he landed on his axe-handle broad rear. He did not stay there long.

  With a diminished roar, he sprang to his boots and waded in again. Methodically, Smoke worked at cleaning his clock. A right-left combination halted Rafe’s advance. His arms groped ineffectually to get his opponent in a bear hug. Failing that, Rafe threw wide, looping punches that Smoke slipped on the points of his shoulders.

  Staggered, Rafe tried a kick. Smoke caught his boot and raised it while he twisted. Pain shot up Rafe’s leg, he went off balance and toppled backward. His head made a loud noise as it struck the edge of the bar. Sighing softly, he slumped to the floor and lay with his cheek resting on the lip of a brass spittoon. Confident that it was over, Smoke turned to address the cluster of the remaining trash.

  “I want the rest of you out of here and out of town. You have ten minutes.”

  Before Smoke could continue, Rafe Diggins recovered faster than expected. He bounded off the floor with an enraged bellow; a glint came off a knife he held low in his right hand. Smoke saw it at once and pivoted to evade a straight thrust. Diggins had every intention to gut him like a deer.

  Trying a back slash, Diggins bore in with his deadly blade. Smoke considered the alternatives for a moment, then acted as common sense dictated. Quickly he scooped up the leg of a chair broken in the fight. When Diggins lunged again, Smoke brought it down on his right forearm. Bones cracked and Diggins howled in pain. The knife fell from his grasp. At once the experienced brawler went for his six-gun left-handed.

  He barely had the barrel clear of leather when Smoke Jensen shot him in the shoulder. Jolted back, Diggins rammed his back into the bar. He stiffened, then sagged in defeat. Smoke reached him in four quick strides. Roughly he slammed the man around and searched him for more hide-out weapons. Then he began to frog-march Diggins out the door and off to jail.

  Grumbling, the other frontier debris followed after. Out in the street, Rafe Diggins roused enough to overcome his pain and make one more try. From a leather pouch suspended by a cord down his back, he snatched a straight razor and snapped it open as he made a vicious slash at Smoke Jensen’s throat.

  Smoke did not even hesitate. The big .45 Colt Peacemaker filled his right hand, and his fingertip lightly tripped the trigger. Rafe Diggins jolted to a stop and looked down disbelievingly at the black hole in the center of his chest that began to leak red. His uninjured arm dropped to his side, and the razor fell from his numb grasp. His face went slack. Slowly he canted forward and began to fall. He landed on his face with a thud, in a viscous puddle of mud. Smoke Jensen stepped over and looked down coldly at the dead man, whose head was a welter of shattered gore. Then he turned his attention to the thoroughly cowed collection of rogues.

  “Like I said, I’m posting you out of town. After ten minutes, if any of you are still here, I’ll come after you. And, I’m warning you, I will shoot to kill.”

  In a mad scramble, they left in all directions, like a flock of pigeons with a fox in the barn.

  Word of Smoke’s accomplishment spread rapidly around town. Aaron Tucker, the owner and daytime bartender at the Sorry Place saloon rushed outside when Smoke passed by to wring his hand and offer praise.

  “Let me tell you, Sheriff Jensen, you’re doin’ a marvelous job. There was some shanty trash hanging around my place. Nothing I did could get rid of them. When they heard of what happened at the Gold Boot, they cleared out without a word.

  “Well—ah—thank you.”

  “I’m Aaron Tucker. I own this place. Anything you want, any time you come in, it’s on the house.”

  “That’s not necessary, Mr. Tucker.”

  “No. I know that. That’s why I’m offering it.”

  “Thank you again.”

  When he completed his rounds, Smoke returned to the office to find another form of gratitude. A small rectangle of cream-colored note paper lay on his desk. He opened it and read the contents.

  “Dear Sheriff Jensen,” it read. “I fear that I failed terribly in expressing my gratitude for my rescue at your hand. Violence upsets me, and I had recently been subjected to such shocking indignities, that I quite forgot myself. Please let me make it up to you with an invitation to a late supper this evening. I will expect you at eight o’clock, if that is suitable.” The invitation had been signed simply, “Virginia Parkins.”

  Smoke Jensen puckered his lips as he put the note aside. It would appear the schoolteacher knew her manners after all. What’s more, he had always been a sucker for a home-cooked meal. Especially one prepared by such an attractive young woman. Yes, he would enjoy their supper. Images of his Sally, so far away, clouded his anticipation. Smoke looked up to see a small, freckle-faced boy standing expectantly in the open doorway.

  His name, Smoke had learned, was Jimmy. He had come by earlier and informed Smoke that he had done odd jobs for the late sheriff. “Like sweep up when the deputies were out on a posse,” he had illustrated. Smoke decided to make use of his services now.

  “Just a minute, Jimmy. I have something for you to do.” Smoke found paper and a worn, steel nib pen in the top drawer. Carefully he drew the letters of his acceptance in a fine copper plate script. He blotted it, folded the sheet in half and extended it to the boy.

  “Take this to Miss Parkins, please.”

  Jimmy’s eyes went wide. “Our teacher? What’s it about?”

  Smoke gave him a brief frown. “That’s not for you to know. Here’s a dime for your trouble.”

  He handed a silver coin to the lad, who scampered off on bare feet, puffs of dust left behind by his heels. Then Smoke leaned back to reflect on his progress. Considering he had seven in jail, at least fifteen run out of town, and another on his way to Boot Hill, plus an invitation to supper, Smoke thought he had made a good start at getting a handle on the undesirable element in Muddy Gap. He might be able to rejoin the herd within three days.

  “Mr. Jensen, you saved my life, my job and my reputation. I can’t thank you enough.” Virginia Parkins blushed lightly as she spoke. “Only one thing . . .”

  “Yes? And, please, call me Smoke.”

  “Very well, Smoke. My friends call me Ginny.” She took a deep breath and launched into her favorite theme. “I suppose that, all considered, there was no other way of handling that awful situation this morning. It’s just that I have devoted my life to ending the violence with which we, as a people, seem obsessed.”

  Smoke Jensen sat, somewhat ill at ease, on a delicate, velvet-upholstered chair in the parlor of Virginia’s tiny house. The rich aroma of a roasting cut of beef came from the cast-iron cookstove in the kitchen. Mingled with it was the unmistakable aroma of a peach pie. Their supper might be late, but far from light. Conscious of the need not to offend her, he carefully weighed his reply.

  “You are right about the first part, Ginny. Under the circumstances, the only thing those craven louts would properly respond to was superior force. Bullies like Brandon Kelso take any show of politeness or mild-mannered behavior as a sign of weakness. That’s exactly what they feed upon. So, in order to get them to behave in a proper manner, I first had to get their attention.”

  A slight frown divided the space between her eyebrows vertically. “You certainly did that. What if ... what if one of them had produced a weapon?”

  Smoke shrugged, trying to ease the bluntness his words described. “Then I would have had to shoot that one.”

  Ginny shivered. “May we speak of something else?”

  “Certainly. Muddy Gap is a raw, new town. How many students does that afford you?”

  “I have sixte
en. From first to eighth grade.”

  “That’s quite a few for a place on the edge of nowhere. My wife was a schoolteacher when I met her.”

  Again that small grimace of irritation. “Is that so? I’m surprised at her attraction to a lawman.”

  Smoke chuckled softly. “So was she.”

  That lightened Ginny’s mood. “And were you?”

  “Oh, no. I think I fell in love the first time I met Sally. She was, and is, so different than any other woman I had ever encountered. And beautiful, too.”

  “You are a lucky man, Smoke. To have wooed and won someone whom you feel so strongly about.” She rose onto her high-button shoes. “I am sure that roast is ready now. Go on in to the table, I’ll have everything on in a minute. All I need do is fix the gravy.”

  Smoke pulled a teasing expression of being highly impressed. “All that and gravy, too. I feel like a regular guest of honor. Don’t tell me you have home-baked bread to sop with.”

  Ginny suppressed a giggle. “I certainly do.”

  “Then, let us begin.”

  Aaron Tucker was unaccustomed to being called back to the Sorry Place at night. His summons came from the night bartender, delivered by the old fellow who worked as a swamper. He showed up on the front porch of the Tucker house at eight-thirty that night.

  “Fred says there’s trouble brewin’, Mr. Tucker. Some of those gunhawks are gettin’ drunk and makin’ talk about ambushing the new sheriff.”

  Aaron pursed his lips. “They might find that harder to do than they expect.” He sighed heavily. “All right, I’ll come.”

  When they reached the saloon, Aaron Tucker found the situation worse than he had expected. Five surly men lined the bar. Four more sat around a table, cards spread before them for a game of five-card stud. Behind the mahogany, Fred Barnes wore a worried expression. The only friendly face in the saloon was that of Mayor Lester Norton. He nodded a curt greeting to Aaron and cut his eyes around the room.