Pearlie slowed Cold as they pulled next to Longmont’s Saloon. “You think we might have time to get a bite or two to eat at Longmont’s ’fore we head back to the Sugarloaf?” he asked, a hopeful expression on his face.
“That hollow leg of your’s beginning to feel empty, Pearlie?” Smoke asked, winking at Cal.
“Yes, sir. I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
Smoke glanced at the sun, nearing the middle of the sky but not giving off much heat as cold autumn air flowed down from the mountain passes and chilled the day.
“Well, it has been a few hours since you cleaned us out of fatback and sinkers, so I guess it won’t hurt any if we stop and have a meal before bracing that gunny over at Doc’s.”
They tied their horses to the rail in front of Longmont’s and got down out of the saddle. Smoke stood and looked at a trio of horses already tied there, noting the trail dust covering the animals and the strange brands on their flanks.
“Looks like we’ve got some strangers in town,” he said, as they walked through the batwings.
By force of long habit, Smoke stepped to the side as he entered the saloon and diner and let his eyes adjust to the darkened room while he studied the men inside. When he’d lived by his guns, it’d been a trait that had saved his life on more than one occasion. Saloons were the most dangerous places in the West, accounting for more than three-quarters of the deaths in most towns.
Cal and Pearlie, trained by Smoke, stepped to the other side of the door and also waited, checking out the customers to see if any appeared dangerous. They both knew there were many men in the country who would like nothing better than to get a reputation for being the one who planted Smoke Jensen forked end up.
Smoke noticed his gambler friend of many years, Louis Longmont, sitting at his usual table in the saloon he owned, where he plied his trade, which he called teaching amateurs the laws of chance.
Louis was a lean, hawk-faced man, with strong, slender hands and long fingers, nails carefully manicured, hands clean. He had jet-black hair and a black pencil-thin mustache. He was, as usual, dressed in a black suit, with white shirt and dark ascot—something he’d picked up on a trip to England some years back. He wore low-heeled boots, and a pistol hung in tied-down leather on his right side. It was not for show, for Louis was snake-quick with a short gun and was a feared, deadly gun hand when pushed.
Louis was not an evil man. He had never hired his gun out for money. And while he could make a deck of cards do almost anything, he did not cheat at poker. He did not have to cheat. He was possessed of a phenomenal memory and could tell you the odds of filling any type of poker hand, and was one of the first to use the new method of card counting.
He was just past forty years of age. He had come to the West as a very small boy, with his parents, arriving from Louisiana. His parents had died in a shantytown fire, leaving the boy to cope as best he could.
He had coped quite well, plying his innate intelligence and willingness to take a chance into a fortune. He owned a large ranch up in Wyoming Territory, several businesses in San Francisco, and a hefty chunk of a railroad.
Though it was a mystery to many why Longmont stayed with the hard life he had chosen, Smoke thought he understood. Once, Louis had said to him, “Smoke, I would miss my life every bit as much as you would miss the dry-mouthed moment before the draw, the challenge of facing and besting those miscreants who would kill you or others, and the so-called loneliness of the owl-hoot trail.”
Sometimes Louis joked that he would like to draw against Smoke someday, just to see who was faster. Smoke always allowed as how it would be close, but that he would win. “You see, Louis, you’re just too civilized,” he had told him on many occasions. “Your mind is distracted by visions of operas, fine foods and wines, and the odds of your winning the match. Also, your fatal flaw is that you can almost always see the good in the lowest creatures God ever made, and you refuse to believe that anyone is pure evil and without hope of redemption.”
When Louis laughed at this description of himself, Smoke would continue. “Me, on the other hand, when some snake-scum draws down on me and wants to dance, the only thing I have on my mind is teaching him that when you dance, someone has to pay the band. My mind is clear and focused on only one problem, how to put that stump-sucker across his horse toes-down.”
Today, Louis was, as usual, sitting at his personal table, playing solitaire and drinking coffee, a long, black cheroot in the corner of his mouth. Louis looked up and saw Smoke, but he didn’t smile as he usually did when Smoke paid him a visit. Instead, he cut his eyes toward the bar and gave his head a slight toss.
Smoke followed his gaze, letting his right hand unhook the hammer-thong on his Colt .44. There were three men standing at the bar, leaning on elbows and drinking whiskey with beer chasers. They looked like hard men, and all had their guns tied down low on their legs, showing they weren’t typical cowboys.
Smoke spoke low, out of the side of his mouth. “Watch those three, boys, and keep your guns loose. Something tells me they ride for Slaughter.”
Smoke and Cal and Pearlie joined Louis at his table, all three adjusting their chairs so they could watch the men at the bar.
“Howdy, Louis,” Smoke said.
“Good afternoon, Smoke,” Louis replied, his eyes too on the strangers.
“I notice you got some new customers. Anyone I might know?”
Louis tilted smoke out of his nostrils toward the ceiling and shook his head. “I don’t believe so. But these men are very curious about the whereabouts of our sheriff, Monte Carson. They’ve asked just about everyone who’s come in where he might be.”
Smoke had filled Louis in on the happenings at Monte’s, and had asked him to spread the word that Monte was away on a trip, letting his deputy Jimmy cover things for him in his absence. “Did they believe the story about Monte gone fishing?”
“Not for a moment.”
Smoke leaned back in his chair and pushed his hat back on his head. “Do you think you could get Andre to fix us up some lunch? Pearlie’s about to starve to death.”
Louis grinned for the first time since they entered. “And when is he not?”
He motioned for the young black man who was the waiter to come to his table. “Bobby, would you ask Andre to fix three steaks, not too well done, and to fry some potatoes for Mr. Jensen and his friends?”
“Shore, Boss, and I’ll bring some fresh coffee right over too.”
While waiting for their food, Smoke got to his feet. “I think I’ll mosey on over to the bar and say hello to our friends there,” he said.
Longmont sighed. “I’ll tell Bobby to keep the mop handy. I have a feeling he’ll be having a mess to clean up before long.”
Smoke smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes as he walked to the bar. He leaned on it next to the three men.
Smoke, who stood a few inches over six feet in height and had shoulders as wide as an ax handle, dwarfed the men next to him. The closest turned his head and looked up at Smoke’s face.
“Howdy, boys,” Smoke said, leaning his left elbow on the bar, keeping his right hand free hanging next to his pistol.
“You want somethin’, mister?” a short, dark-haired man with a scraggly mustache growled out of the side of his mouth.
Smoke stared into the man’s eyes, his gaze as hard as flint. “I hear you’ve been asking a lot of questions about our sheriff, Monte Carson.”
“What’s it to you, feller?” the man asked, a sneer turning up the corners of his lips.
Smoke hesitated for a moment, then backhanded the man across the mouth, slamming his face to the side and almost taking his head off. The man spun on his heels and fell facedown on the floor, his eyes crossed and vacant as blood spurted from his flattened nose and torn lips.
The gunny next to him reached for his gun, but before he could clear leather Smoke drew and slammed his .44 down on the man’s head, driving him to his knees with bl
ood spurting from his forehead.
Smoke turned the barrel of the Colt toward the third man, who was standing there with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. “I live in this town,” Smoke said in a low voice ringed with steel, “and I don’t like pond scum like you three smelling up the town.”
Sweat appeared on the man’s forehead as he slowly moved his hand away from the butt of his pistol. “Uh . . . yes, sir,” he mumbled.
“Now, I’m going to ask you once more, why are you fellows so interested in the whereabouts of Monte Carson?”
The man on his knees glanced up, wiping blood off his face, but didn’t answer. The third man, who hadn’t moved a muscle, looked at Smoke, his eyes switching from the hole in the Colt’s barrel to Smoke’s face. “We had a message from an old friend of his, that’s all. We were just supposed to tell him hello.” His face slowly drained of color as he spoke.
“And what was this friend’s name?” Smoke asked, earing down the hammer on his .44 and putting it back in his holster.
The two men who were still conscious glanced at each other, sudden fear in their eyes. “I don’t rightly remember,” the man on his knees said as he grabbed the bar and pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He had a slight quaver in his voice and his eyes fixed on Smoke’s pistol.
The man on the floor moaned and rolled on his back, sleeving blood off his mouth with his arm. Smoke reached down, grabbed a handful of his hair, and hauled him to his feet, the man squealing in pain.
Smoke smiled and dusted the man’s clothes off. “Well, like I said, this is a nice town, but as you can see, it’s not too healthy to go around asking a lot of questions about things that don’t concern you.”
“Yes, sir, we can see that,” the third man said, relieved that Smoke’s gun was back in his holster.
“Now, why don’t you fellows head on back to Wyoming and learn to mind your own business?”
“How’d you know we was from Wyomin’?” the second man said, before the third slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Shut up, Max.”
Smoke leaned forward and whispered, “I know a whole lot more than you think I do, and I want you to take a message to your boss, Jim Slaughter.”
“We don’t . . .” the third man started to say until a look from Smoke silenced him in mid-sentence.
“Tell Slaughter that Smoke Jensen is coming to have a talk with him, and that if Mary Carson has even one hair out of place when I get there, they’ll be finding pieces of his carcass all over the territory before I’m done with him.”
“Smoke Jensen . . . THE Smoke Jensen?”
“There’s only one I’m aware of,” Smoke said.
“Gawd Almighty, Joe, you done drawed down on Smoke Jensen,” the second man said to the one with blood all over his face.
Smoke looked at each man one at a time. “I’d suggest that after you give Slaughter my message, you boys look for a healthier climate, ’cause if I see you when I get there, I’ll kill you deader’n a snake.”
“All right, Mr. Jensen,” Max said as he picked his hat up off the bar, ignoring the blood running down his face.
“Oh, and you can tell him Blackie Johnson and his friends send their regards from Hell.”
The three men’s eyes widened and their faces paled as they threw some coins down on the bar and walked rapidly out of the room without looking back.
“Smoke, your steak is getting cold,” Louis called from his table.
Smoke glanced over and saw the gambler hooking his hammer-thong back on the pistol he wore on his right hip, and knew his friend had been backing his play.
Pearlie already had his head down and was stuffing his food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Cal was smiling and watching the men leave the saloon.
“You shore know how to liven up a place, Smoke,” he said.
As Smoke cut into his steak, Louis leaned forward. “Do you mind telling me why you did that?”
Smoke swallowed, took a drink of coffee, and looked up. “I wanted Slaughter to know that Monte got his message. I also wanted him to know what would happen if he hurt Mary.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
Smoke shrugged. “Slaughter’s not the kind of man to keep his word, so if he’s planning to kill Monte when he gets his money, there wouldn’t be any reason for him to keep Mary safe.”
Smoke cut another piece of steak. “Now there is, and he’ll be wondering why I’m dealing myself into this hand. I hope it’ll make him nervous, not knowing just what’s going on, and a nervous man sometimes makes mistakes.”
8
Big Jim Slaughter sat at a table in the main room of a cabin and watched Mary Carson work in the kitchen. She was rolling dough into a long tube, fixing to bake a loaf of bread in the oven.
The cabin was one of five situated in a box canyon in the mountains just north of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. They were rough, had been made of weathered pine logs many years before, and had been used by hundreds of outlaws who’d holed up there while waiting for the law to tire of hunting for them.
There was only one road into the canyon, though there were several steep trails that could be used as exits in the event of a raid by lawmen or the Army. The trails were rough and winding and, though passable by men riding in single file, were too steep and narrow to be suitable for a force of men to use as an attack. Because of the remoteness of the area, and the many narrow passes that were heavily guarded, no one had ever attempted to roust the men hiding there, which made it an ideal place for what Slaughter had in mind.
Slaughter tipped his hat back on his head and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. He took a deep drink of the coffee Mary’d made and smacked his lips.
“I sure do appreciate you cooking for us, Mrs. Carson. It’s the first time we’ve had any food worth eating in over six months.”
Mary spoke without turning around. “I don’t mind. Keeping busy keeps my mind off . . . other things. I’d rather be doing this than sitting and worrying about Monte and what’s going to happen when he finds you.”
Slaughter smirked as he took a cloth bag out of his pocket and began to build himself a cigarette. “You worried that maybe he’ll get himself killed?”
She turned and leaned back against the counter, dusting flour off her hands on the apron around her waist. She shook her head. “No, not really. Monte’s been a sheriff for some time now, and I know that every day there is the chance some drunken cowboy or thief will shoot him.” Her lips curled in a small smile. “It goes with being married to an officer of the law.”
Slaughter’s face puckered in puzzlement as he struck a lucifer on his pants leg. “Then what are you fretting about?”
Mary’s eyes bored into his, making the back of his neck tingle, as if he were being watched by a rattlesnake. “I’m worried about how he’s going to feel after he kills you and your men. Monte’s never liked having to kill . . . it upsets him for weeks after wards.”
Slaughter choked on a lungful of smoke as he reared his head back and laughed and coughed. When he could get his breath, he asked, “You mean you’re afraid he might lose some sleep if he manages to put some lead in me?”
“That’s right,” she answered. “He’s not like you, Mr. Slaughter. Killing goes against his nature, though I’m told he’s right good at it when he needs be.”
Slaughter nodded his head. “Well, let me assure you, Mrs. Carson. If Monte does manage to plant me six feet under, he sure as hell won’t lose any sleep over it. Matter of fact, he’s liable to dance a jig on my grave.”
He stabbed out his butt on the sole of his boot and dropped it in an empty can on the table that had once held tinned peaches. “But personally,” he said, looking back up at her, “I don’t think Monte is that good with a gun.”
Mary stared at him with sad eyes, making him wonder just what was going through her mind. “Perhaps you’ve underestimated my husband, Mr. Slaughter. Have you heard back from the three men you sent to tell him
what you wanted?”
The itch returned to the back of Slaughter’s neck when she reminded him of the strange absence of Boots Malone, Blackie Johnson, and Slim Watkins. They’d had plenty of time to deliver his message to Monte Carson and make their way back to the hole-in-the-wall. If they didn’t show up in the next couple of days, or if he didn’t hear from Max or the other two he’d sent to find out what had happened to Blackie and the others, he’d have to ride into Jackson Hole and see if there was a telegraph message for him. Slaughter had been planning this operation for several years now, and he didn’t much like being in the dark and not knowing how his plan was progressing.
“I’m sure they’ll show up eventually, Mrs. Carson,” he answered her, though his voice was less sure now.
She gave him a slight smile, her eyes still sad. “If those men told Monte that you’d taken me, then they’re probably dead, or in jail.” She turned and began kneading the bread dough. “And I wouldn’t go making plans on how you’re going to spend that money you want from Monte, because there’s not a chance in Hell you’re going to live to see a single dollar of it.”
Slaughter gritted his teeth until his jaw ached and stood up from the table. He wasn’t going to let this woman and her faith in her husband’s ability get to him. He turned and walked out the door without another word.
Mary glanced at his back as he left, smiling to herself. She knew Monte was coming for her and that they would be together again soon.
* * *
Smoke refilled his coffee cup and sat back after telling Monte and Sally about what had happened at Longmont’s.
Monte was healing fast and was already up and walking around the cabin, anxious to get moving toward Wyoming.
Sally glanced at him with worried eyes. “I really don’t think you’re ready to make that long a journey on horseback, Monte.”
He took the bowl of beef soup she’d fixed him in both hands and drank the last of the juice. “There’s no other way, Sally. Every day we wait puts Mary in that much more danger. There’s no telling what those bast . . . uh, galoots are doing to her.”
Heart of the Mountain Man Page 5
