“I hear you’re lookin’ to hire some men.”
“We are. Are you, by chance, interested?” Victor Spectre responded.
A fleeting, icy smile spread full lips. “Not by chance, by lack of other employment. What is it you are hiring for?”
“We need men good with their guns. And I like to know the name of any man I’m talking business with.”
“My name’s Jaeger. Gus Jaeger. M’given name is Augustus, but it’s a lot to work your tongue around, so I shortened it. And who might you be?”
“I am Victor Spectre, these gentlemen are my partners in this little endeavor. Ralph Tinsdale and Olin Buckner. Now, Mr. Jaeger, take a seat and we can discuss this a little further.”
When Jaeger took one of the straight-back chairs, reversed it and seated himself, Spectre signaled the bartender for a round. When that had been duly delivered and the apron absented himself, Spectre steepled his fingers on the green table and spoke in a low voice.
“It did not take much initiative or effort for us to do a little research. I suppose your current unemployment has something to do with the three years you spent in prison for stagecoach robbery, Mr. Jaeger. The others in the gang got considerably more time, am I correct?”
Gus Jaeger went white from anger and clenched a fist before answering. His cold, hazel eyes burned under black brows. “You’re right about that. The reason is I hadn’t pulled as many jobs with the boys as they got caught for. What business is it of yours to go snoopin’ into a man’s past?”
“Oh, we did not do anything so shady, believe me. We simply went through some of the sheriff’s old wanted posters and reviewed past issues of the newspapers. Your name came up, along with some others. We left invitations in their postal boxes, like the one you received. So far, you are the first to respond.”
Jaeger’s full, fleshy lips pulled wide in a rueful grin. He removed his Montana Peak Stetson, revealing thick, black hair, and sailed it toward a row of hooks on the near wall. It caught and held. By then he had recovered himself enough to speak calmly.
“I’m surprised there has not been more interest. What exactly do you have in mind?”
“There is this man. He needs doing away with,” Spectre evaded.
Jaeger looked them over with a puzzled frown. “You want to hire a killing? There’s three of you. Why don’t you simply find him and do it yourselves?”
“It’s—well, it is not quite that easy.” Spectre still tried to avoid naming the target.
“Why not? Is he a gunfighter?”
“Yes, Mr. Jaeger, he is.”
Smiling, Jaeger knocked back his whiskey and tilted his chair away from the table. “Well, then, you needn’t worry about any other applicants. There’s not anyone around that’s better than me in a one-on-one shoot-out. I could even handle two to one, if necessary. If you gentlemen are satisfied, you’ve got yourself all the gunhand you’ll need. By the way, who is this gunfighter?”
“It’s—ah—Smoke Jensen,” Spectre regretfully gusted out.
Jaeger’s chair legs banged noisily back onto the floor and his jaw sagged. Belatedly, he closed his mouth and swallowed hard. “If I weren’t so hard up for work, I’d tell you just how crazy you are and high-tail it out of here.”
Tinsdale responded dryly. “You’ve heard of him, I gather?”
“Heard of him? I grew up readin’ penny dreadfuls about Smoke Jensen. If only a quarter of it was true, he’s pure hell on wheels. Not anyone I’d want to go up against alone. Hell, I’d be afraid to even try to back-shoot him.”
“It is wise to have a healthy respect for an adversary,” Spectre stated flatly. “Though hardly good to fear someone you are engaged to dispose of. Are you sure you can conquer your awe of Jensen long enough to make an end of him?”
After a long moment of careful thought, Jaeger made reply. “Of course I can. Especial, I’ve got me three or four good boys to back me up.”
Victor Spectre responded almost primly. “We were thinking of more like twenty. Very well, Mr. Jaeger, consider yourself hired. We will, naturally, pay for your hotel accommodations and meals, with a two dollar a day stipend until we are ready to move on.”
“Is Smoke Jensen here, in Arizona?”
“Not that we know of. We assume we will need to do something to flush him out of his high valley ranch in the Colorado Rockies. Until we are in a position to do that, we must build up a sizable gang to make things happen as we want them to. Now, you can do us a first service. Spread the word to those of like inclination. Tell them we are prepared to be most generous.” He paused a moment and pinned Jaeger with his cold eyes. “Only don’t tell them who they’ll be facing.”
After Gus Jaeger departed Olin Buckner spoke what was on all their minds. “A good thing that old man was a miser, or we’d not be able to be so generous.”
“Yes, quite,” Spectre answered. “We will have to act quickly to replenish our purse after our recruiting is ended here, Olin.”
“What did you have in mind, Victor?” Tinsdale asked.
“We have engaged the services of an expert highwayman. I think we should find out all we can about the stage lines coming into here and what they carry.”
Buckner brightened. “Yes. And there are banks along the way, too. By the way, where are we going?”
Spectre spoke in a tone that suggested he had been thinking on the subject for a long while. “North. Perhaps as far as into Wyoming. There’s a place there guaranteed to make Smoke Jensen come to us.”
“Where’s that?” Tinsdale demanded.
“Later. You will all know when the time is right.”
Over the next three days, they learned all that could be expected about the stage lines. Spectre and his partners also interviewed close to twenty-five men. Among them certified hard cases, murderers, and a number of outlaw wanna-bes. They rejected all but two of the latter, and one of the killers, who had an odd cast in his eye that made him appear to be studying them for the best method of making their deaths long and excruciating. That left the trio of vengeance-hungry felons a total of seventeen gunhands.
“We’ll get more along the way,” Spectre advised them philosophically.
“Why do we need more?”
Spectre smiled patronizingly. “Simple, Olin. We have to have a veritable army to take over an entire town.”
Eyebrows climbed Buckner’s forehead. “What town?”
“In due time, Olin. At the right moment, everyone will know. Please, do not bring up the subject again. Uh—Mr. Jaeger, notify the others that we will be leaving early tomorrow morning.”
“Right away, Boss. And—ah—call me Gus, everyone does. And I can call you…?”
“Mister Spectre,” Victor interrupted.
An hour after first light, the eighteen hard cases rode out of Grand Canyon with the partners. They left by twos and threes in order not to attract unwanted attention. Twenty miles out of town, where the trail disappeared around the curved base of a large hill, Victor Spectre called a halt.
“Men, Gus here has considerable experience at holding up stagecoaches. Miller and Brock, as I understand, have some acquaintance with the technique also.”
An erstwhile thug named Huntoon screwed up his face and, in an Appalachian accent, asked a baby-faced gunfighter named Carpenter next to him, “What’s that feller say?”
Carpenter cut his pale ice-blue eyes to Huntoon. “He says Jaeger, Miller, an’ Brock have robbed themselves a few stages.”
Brow furrowed, Huntoon considered this. “That a fact?”
Spectre ignored the aside and went on. “In a short while, a stage, heavily laden with the payroll for the Valle del Cobre mine, will be coming around that curve. We are going to rob it. In order to do this, you will follow the orders of Mr. Jaeger. Misters Miller and Brock will direct the two phases of the operation. Obey them as you would myself and we shall all enjoy the spoils.”
“We gonna split it up share for share?” Huntoon raised his voice to
inquire.
“No. My partners and I shall use the proceeds to pay you your new wage of ten dollars a day.”
An excited murmur ran through the outlaws and thugs. The only objection came from Huntoon. “Now that’s mighty generous, Mr. Spectre, but we’d prefer equal shares.”
Victor Spectre’s face flushed dark red. Fury burned in his green eyes, and sparks crackled in his voice. “And would you also prefer to be left stone dead beside the trail?”
“Uh—no, sir. Not at all, nosir.”
“Then leave the financial affairs of this jolly band to your betters, Mr Huntoon.”
Huntoon’s mouth almost got him dead after all. “What d’y’all mean my betters?’ Y’all may talk lak a dandy but you ain’t nothin’ more than another jailbird on the run. I done seed the flyer in the post office.”
Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed in Spectre’s harsh rejoinder. “We are your betters, you hillbilly trash, for the simple reason that we can read and write and we do not dally with our cousins and sisters.”
Had it been any other man, or had he not seen Carpenter, a feller he thought of as a friend, put his hand on the butt of his Colt, Huntoon would have dragged iron. Instead he lowered his eyes and spoke softly as he would to his father. “Yes, Boss. You’re right, Boss.” It didn’t keep him from brooding on the idea of a future feud.
Victor Spectre did not even attempt to hide the smirk on his lips. “Very well. Gus, divide the men according to your needs and get them in position. We haven’t much time.”
Twenty minutes later the keener ears among the gang picked up the faint jingle and slap of chain and tack over the rumble of hooves and crunch of iron-shod tires. Before long the creaking of the coach could be heard. It surprised Victor to see the nervousness of so many among his band of desperados. He trusted that they would perform better than it looked like they could.
The flying manes and outstretched necks of the coach horses came into view around the curve. At once, men rode out of the brush and trees to either side of the trail and fired at the men on the driver’s bench. Others blocked the roadway and two of them reached for the lead horses. A shotgun boomed and one of the outlaws screamed horribly. More gunshots crackled from the robbers and the guard slumped dead.
A moment later, the driver dropped the reins and threw up his hands. He pitched forward over the dashboard and fell to the tongue. The horses came to a calamitous halt, the hind four ramming forward into the rumps of those ahead. Swaying wildly, the coach juddered to a halt. From inside, a lone passenger fired a futile, unwise shot. Three rounds answered him.
Silence followed. Then, the unseen passenger groaned as the masked men walked their mounts to the coach. Fin Brock dismounted and opened the door. The wounded passenger leaned outward and two highwaymen helped him from the stage. They sat him against a boulder and ignored him thereafter. It took little time to discover the three large strongboxes filled with gold and silver coin.
Men cheered at the sight. At the direction of Gus Jaeger, the stage horses were unhitched and their harness altered to serve as pack bearing tack. One iron-banded crate went on each of three, alone with some of the load from the gang’s pack animals. With loads lightened, the hard-faced men removed their bandana masks and rode off without any thought for the wounded passenger.
4
Spectre, Tinsdale, and Buckner remained very much on the mind of Smoke Jensen as he rode into Big Rock to telegraph the prison for more details. An emergency breeched foal and other ranch minutiae had prevented him from returning to town with Monte Carson. Now, a week later, he dwelled on the circumstances of the men whose criminal careers he had interrupted. There wasn’t a one of them who did not get what he deserved.
With such dark broodings filling his head, Smoke ambled spotted-rump Thunder onto the northern end of Central Street, the main drag of Big Rock. The recent craze for naming every street in the small community amused Smoke. He considered it pretentious, one of the fancy words Sally had taught him. He did not think what he discovered halfway down the first block of the business district to be pretentious, nor did it amuse him.
A burly man, a stranger to these parts, stood between the driver’s seat and dashboard of a heavy wagon. Muscles rippled in his thick shoulders as he plied a whip to lash the daylights out of a pair of scrawny, sway-backed mules, trapped in the harness of the overloaded rig they pulled.
“I’ll learn ya, gawdamnit, you stubborn, stupid critters. When I say haul, you by damnit haul. Now git to movin’.”
Smoke Jensen just naturally bristled at this unnecessary cruelty. He eased his ’Palouse stallion closer and tipped the brim of his hat back on his head. For all his sudden anger at this abuse, he kept his voice polite.
“Excuse me.” The huge teamster ignored Smoke. “I said, excuse me. I don’t think you will achieve the results you expect by beating these starved, worn-out animals any longer.”
The burly driver turned to face Smoke. “Mind yer own gawdamned business. These lazy bastids, all they do is eat and sleep and crap. Hell, they even sleep standin’ up. Now, git on outta here and leave me to what I have to do.”
When the teamster turned away and applied his whip again, Smoke edged Thunder closer to the wagon. He reached out with one big hand and lifted the man off his feet. With a touch of his heels, Smoke backed Thunder clear of the buckboard and released his grip on the astonished wagoneer. Then Smoke calmly dismounted while the astonished lout dropped to his boots in the dusty street.
Blinded by rage, the foolish man went at Smoke with the whip. In one swift move, Smoke deflected the lash with his left forearm, grabbed the braided leather scourge and yanked it from the man’s grasp. Smoke’s right hand got right busy snapping short jabs to the thick lips of the dolt. Rocked back on his heels, the errant teamster belatedly brought up his arms in an effort to end the punishment. Smoke Jensen merely changed targets.
Hard knuckles dug into the puss gut of the abusive dullard. Coughing out air, the man did manage to land one blow that stung Smoke’s left cheekbone. Smoke responded with a looping left that opened a cut on his opponent’s right brow. A red curtain lowered over the teamster’s right eye. He uttered a bull-roar of outrage and tried to grab Smoke in a bear hug.
Smoke danced back from it, and popped his target on one fat jowl. He felt teeth give beneath the layer of fat. Then the stranger tried a kick to Smoke’s groin. Smoke side-stepped it and grabbed the offending leg. He gave it a quick yank upward.
“Phaw!” the teamster bellowed when his rump contacted the hard-packed street.
Smoke closed with him and battered his head seriously. Groggy, the owner of the mules tried to stand. Smoke knocked him flat on his back with a left to the jaw. Satisfied that he had taken all of the fight out of the man, Smoke turned his back and strode toward Thunder. He barely heard the scrabble of boot soles on the pebble-strewn street as the battered man came at Smoke with a knife.
Bert Fowler had never been given such a humiliation in his entire life. Always big for his age, he had bullied and brow-beaten even children older than himself. As he grew, he had filled out, both in muscle and in flab. Bert loved to eat. Six eggs, two pork chops, a couple of slabs of cornmeal mush, and a half dozen biscuits he considered a light breakfast. He routinely ate a whole chicken when he sat down to be serious about it. That came with the better part of a serving bowl of mashed potatoes, a quart of gravy, and more biscuits to mop up the run-over. Bert liked his run-overs.
By the time he was a man full-grown, he stood an inch over six feet and weighed 257 pounds. When Smoke Jensen lifted him off his wagon, he had increased that to an even 300. Now, bruised, cut, and bleeding, his ribs and gut aching pools of fire, Bert got set on revenge. From his boot top he retrieved a long, thin-bladed dagger and pushed himself upright. Wiping blood out of his right eye, he went directly for the back of the man who had assaulted him so viciously.
Smoke heard the rush of boot soles at the last moment. He jumped to one side and
slapped instinctively at the hand that held the knife. Bert Fowler staggered a bit off course, but whirled in time to confront his enemy. Smoke Jensen saw no reason to kill this lout. Even though faced with the danger of a knife, he eschewed the use of his trusty .45 Colt Peacemaker. In the fleeting instant when both men stood in locked study of one another, he decided to give the errant teamster a taste of his own medicine.
Cat-quick, Smoke bent at the knees and recovered the handle of Fowler’s whip. He came up with the lash seething through the air in a backward motion beside his ear. He sensed when it reached its maximum extension and brought his arm forward. Fowler screamed when the nasty little lead tip he had affixed to his bullwhip bit into the flesh of his right shoulder.
He retained his grasp on the knife regardless, and lunged forward with the tip extended toward the heart of Smoke Jensen. Smoke cracked the whip again. This time he cut through the front of Fowler’s shirt and left a long, red welt on pallid flesh. Fowler howled with pain. He took two more staggering steps toward his hated opponent.
Smoke met him with another rapid, three cut criss-cross that opened the entire front of his assailant’s shirt. Blood ran from the rent flesh. Fowler reversed the knife and made to throw it. Smoke Jensen sliced the dagger from his hand. Relentlessly the flogging went on.
Smoke moved from side to side, the strap cut into the bulging shoulders of Bert Fowler, tore away the remains of his shirt and began to checker his back. He bent double, intent now on merely protecting his face. Smoke had no intention of marking him there, and laid on the flail with unemotional exactness. The trousers came next.
Spirit Of The Mountain Man/ordeal Of The Mountain Man (Pinnacle Westerns) Page 4
