“Oh. You folks headin’ to Fontana?”
The wagon people looked at each other.
Fontana! Smoke thought. Where in the hell is Fontana?
“I’m sorry,” one of the women said. “We’re not familiar with that place.”
“That’s what they just named the town up yonder,” a rider said, jerking his thumb in the direction of No-Name. “Stuck up a big sign last night.”
So No-Name has a name, Smoke thought. Wonder whose idea that was.
But he thought he knew. Tilden Franklin.
Smoke looked at the women of the wagons. They were, to a woman, all very pretty and built up nice. Very shapely. The men with them didn’t look like much to Smoke; but then, he thought, they were easterners. Probably good men back there. But out here, they were out of their element.
And Smoke didn’t much like the look in the eyes of the riders. One kept glancing up and down the road. As yet, no traffic had appeared. But Smoke knew the stream of gold-hunters would soon appear. If the drifters were going to start something—the women being what they wanted, he was sure—they would make their move pretty quick.
At some unspoken signal, the riders dismounted.
“Oh, say!” the weakest-jawed pilgrim said. “It’s good of you men to help.”
“Huh?” a rider said, then grinned. “Oh, yeah. We’re regular do-gooders. You folks nesters?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Farmers.” He ended that, and summed up his feelings concerning farmers by spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the ground, just missing the pilgrim’s feet.
The pilgrim laughed and said, “Oh, no. My name is Ed Jackson, this is my wife, Peg. We plan to open a store in the gold town.”
“Ain’t that nice?” the rider mumbled.
Smoke kneed Horse a bit closer.
“My name is Ralph Morrow,” another pilgrim said. “I’m a minister. This is my wife, Bountiful. We plan to start a church in the gold town.”
The rider looked at Bountiful and licked his lips.
Ralph said, “And this is Paul Jackson. Ed’s brother. Over there is Hunt and Willow Brook. Hunt is a lawyer. That’s Cotton and Mona Spalding. Cotton is a physician. And last, but certainly not least, is Haywood and Dana Arden. Haywood is planning to start a newspaper in town. Now you know us.”
“Not as much as I’d like to,” a rider said, speaking for the first time. He was looking at Bountiful.
To complicate matters, Bountiful was looking square at the rider.
The woman is flirting with him, Smoke noticed. He silently cursed. This Bountiful might be a preacher’s wife, but what she really was was a hot handful of trouble. The preacher was not taking care of business at home.
Bountiful was blond with hot blue eyes. She was staring at the rider.
All the newcomers to the West began to sense something was not as it should be. But none knew what, and if they did, Smoke thought, they wouldn’t know how to handle it. For none of the men were armed.
One of the drifters, the one who had been staring at Bountiful, brushed past the preacher. He walked by Bountiful, his right arm brushing the woman’s jutting breasts. She did not back up. The rider stopped and grinned at her.
The newspaperman’s wife stepped in just in time, stepping between the rider and the woman. She glared at Bountiful. “Let’s you and I start breakfast, Bountiful,” she suggested. “While the men fix the wheel.”
“What you got in your wagon, shopkeeper?” a drifter asked. “Anything in there we might like?”
Ed narrowed his eyes. “I’ll set up shop very soon. Feel free to browse when we’re open for business.”
The rider laughed. “Talks real nice, don’t he, boys?”
His friends laughed.
The riders were big men, tough-looking and seemingly very capable. Smoke had no doubt but what they were all that and more. The more being troublemakers.
Always something, Smoke thought with a silent sigh. People wander into an unknown territory without first checking out all the ramifications. He edged Horse forward.
A rider jerked at a tie-rope over the bed of one wagon. “I don’t wanna browse none. I wanna see what you got now.”
“Now see here!” Ed protested, stepping toward the man.
Ed’s head exploded in pain as the rider’s big fist hit the shopkeeper’s jaw. Ed’s butt hit the ground. Still, Smoke waited.
None of the drifters had drawn a gun. No law, written or otherwise, had as yet been broken. These pilgrims were in the process of learning a hard lesson of the West: You broke your own horses and killed your own snakes. And Smoke recalled a sentiment from some book he had slowly and laboriously studied. When you are in Rome, live in the Roman style; when you are elsewhere, live as they live elsewhere.
He couldn’t remember who wrote it, but it was pretty fair advice.
The riders laughed at the ineptness of the newcomers to the West. One jerked Bountiful to him and began fondling her breasts.
Bountiful finally got it through her head that this was deadly serious, not a mild flirtation.
She began struggling just as the other pilgrims surged forward. Their butts hit the ground as quickly and as hard as Ed’s had.
Smoke put the spurs to Horse and the big horse broke out of the timber. Smoke was out of the saddle before Horse was still. He dropped the reins to the ground and faced the group.
“That’s it!” Smoke said quietly. He slipped the thongs from the hammers of his .44s.
Smoke glanced at Bountiful. Her bodice was torn, exposing the creamy skin of her breasts. “Cover yourself,” Smoke told her.
She pulled away from the rider and ran, sobbing, to Dana.
A rider said, “I don’t know who you are, boy. But I’m gonna teach you a hard lesson.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
“To keep your goddamned nose out of other folks’ business.”
“If the woman had been willing,” Smoke said, “I would not have interfered. Even though it takes a low-life bastard to steal another man’s woman.”
“Why, you . . . pup!” the rider shouted. “You callin’ me a bastard?”
“Are you deaf?”
“I’ll kill you!”
“I doubt it.”
Bountiful was crying. Her husband was holding a handkerchief to a bloody nose, his eyes staring in disbelief at what was taking place.
Hunt Brook was sitting on the ground, his mouth bloody. Cotton’s head was ringing and his ear hurt where he’d been struck. Haywood was wondering if his eye was going to turn black. Paul was holding a hurting stomach, the hurt caused by a hard fist. The preacher looked as if he wished his wife would cover herself.
One drifter shoved Dana and Bountiful out of the way, stepping over to join his friend, facing Smoke. The other two drifters hung back, being careful to keep their hands away from their guns. The two who hung back were older and wiser to the ways of gun slicks. And they did not like the looks of this young man with the twin Colts. There was something very familiar about him. Something calm and cold and very deadly.
“Back off, Ford,” one finally said. “Let’s ride.”
“Hell with you!” the rider named Ford said, not taking his eyes from Smoke. “I’m gonna kill this punk!”
“Something tells me you ain’t neither,” the other drifter who was hanging back said.
“Better listen to him,” Smoke advised Ford.
“Now see here, gentlemen!” Hunt said.
“Shut your gawddamned mouth!” he was told by Ford.
Hunt closed his mouth. Heavens! he thought. This just simply was not done back in Boston.
“You gonna draw, punk?” Ford asked.
“After you,” Smoke said quietly.
“Jesus, Ford!” one of the riders who’d hung back said. “I know who that is.”
“He’s dead, that’s who he is,” Ford said, and reached for his gun.
His friend drew at the same time.
Smoke let them clear leather before he began his lightning draw. His Colts belched fire and smoke, the slugs taking them in the chest, flinging them backward. They had not gotten off a shot.
“Smoke Jensen!” one of the other drifters said.
“Right,” Smoke said. “Now, ride!”8
* * *
Smoke grinned at the memory of just how green the now upright and solid citizens of Big Rock had been when they first arrived out West. Even so, he’d recognized their inner strength and worth, and they’d been among the first people he invited to live in Big Rock when he and Sally founded it later that year.
“What’re you grinnin’ at, Smoke?” Cal asked.
“Oh, nothing, Cal. Just thinking back on old times.”
Pearlie laughed. “You mean back in the old days before we became civilized?”
Smoke threw back his head and laughed with the boys. It was true. The more things changed, the more they remained the same.
30
Smoke felt his heart swell inside his chest at the sight of his cabin on the Sugarloaf. He looked at Cal and Pearlie. “Why don’t you boys clean some of the trail dust off in the bunkhouse while I tell Sally hello?”
Cal and Pearlie glanced at each other and grinned. “You mean you don’t want us to stick around awhile and tell Miss Sally hello, too?” Pearlie asked, an innocent look on his face.
“I’ve been gone from home for more’n a month. What do you think?”
“Yes, sir, we understand,” Cal said, elbowing Pearlie in the side to make him shut his mouth.
The boys peeled off at the bunkhouse, while Smoke rode on up to the main cabin.
By the time he got down off Joker, Sally was running from the porch toward him. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a very solid, very long kiss.
Smoke leaned back and stared at her, his love evident in his eyes. “What? Don’t a man get some breakfast when he comes home from work?”
Sally took him by the hand and marched toward the cabin. “How about we have some dessert first?”
“But you always say that’ll ruin my appetite,” he teased.
She looked back over her shoulder at him, her eyes twinkling. “That’s not all I’m going to ruin if you don’t hurry up.”
“But don’t you want to hear about my trip?”
“Later!” she growled.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, quickening his steps.
* * *
A while later, Sally fixed breakfast and Smoke invited Cal and Pearlie to join them. Pearlie went straight for the bear sign cooling on a windowsill.
Sally slapped his hand when he reached for one. “Not now, Pearlie. AFTER breakfast.”
She cut her eyes at Smoke and winked. “You’ll ruin your appetite.”
“Aw, Miss Sally,” Pearlie protested, “I’ve never known anything to ruin my appetite.”
“Nevertheless, sit down and eat,” she commanded, her hands on her hips.
“Boy, I ain’t never heard nobody have to tell Pearlie that,” Cal observed, digging into thick slices of fried ham, scrambled hens’ eggs, and flapjacks so light he thought they were going to float off the plate.
While they ate, the men took turns filling Sally in on the happenings on their journey to and from Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
Her eyes widened on hearing of Cal’s and Pearlie’s wounds. “We need to have Dr. Spalding take a look at those, Smoke.”
He held up his hands. “Already done, dear. He gave them both a clean bill of health, though he did say Cal didn’t have too much room left on his body without bullet scars on it.”
“I tole the doc I guess he’d have to start over again on the same ol’ scars,” Pearlie said around a mouthful of ham, “’Cause he dang sure ain’t gonna quit gittin’ shot.”
Smoke cocked his head. “I hear hoofbeats,” he said, rising from his chair, his Colt appearing in his hand as if by magic.
He opened the door and looked out, then holstered his pistol.
“Better set another place, dear,” he said. “We’ve got company.”
After a few moments, Muskrat Calhoon stepped through the door. “Howdy, young’uns,” he said. When he caught sight of Sally, he removed his coonskin cap and gave a slight bow. “Mornin’, ma’am.”
“Good morning, Mr. Calhoon,” Sally replied. “My husband has told me how much you helped him and I want to thank you.”
Muskrat cut his eyes to the bear sign on the windowsill. “A couple of those’d do jest fine as thanks, ma’am.”
Sally shook her head. “No, you have to join us for breakfast first. Then we’ll have the bear sign.”
Muskrat glanced at Smoke. “That’s why I never married. Dang women are always denyin’ a man his pleasures.”
“She’s a hardheaded woman all right,” Smoke said with a smile, “but she’s the only one I have.”
Muskrat sat at the table and piled his plate so high with food he could barely be seen behind it. “I will say one thing, ma’am, this is the best food I’ve had in many a year,” he declared, as he stuffed ham and eggs and pancake in his mouth all at one time.
Sally caught Smoke’s eye and wrinkled her nose. “I’ll go prepare a bath for Mr. Calhoon. I’m sure he’d like to . . . freshen up after he eats.”
Muskrat turned fear-widened eyes on Sally. “I got to bathe too ’fore I git any bear sign?”
She smiled. “No, you can have the bear sign first, but the bath comes second.”
He glared at Smoke. “You’re right, son, she is a hard woman!”
* * *
After Muskrat had his bath and Sally had thrown his clothes in a tub of hot water with lye soap in it, Smoke gave him some of his older buckskins to wear while the mountain man’s dried.
“What news do you have of Slaughter, Muskrat?” Smoke asked while they were having smokes and coffee on the porch.
“He managed to hire hisself another twenty or twenty-five gunnies,” Muskrat replied. “Some of the worst pond scum in Pueblo from what I could gather.”
“That figures,” Pearlie said, still chewing on a bear sign doughnut in his hand.
“That means he must have more’n thirty men with him, Smoke,” Cal said.
Smoke nodded. “Yes. We’re certainly going to have our work cut out for us in Big Rock.”
“I figger with the way they’re travelin’, they’ll be here in two or three days at the outside,” Muskrat said, taking a deep puff off a stogie Smoke had given him.
“Sally, we’d better get moved into town. Have all the surrounding ranchers been warned?”
“Yes, dear,” she said from the kitchen where she was washing dishes. “The Norths are already there, and the others in the area have been put on guard.”
“You got room in that there town fer an ol’ beaver like me?” Muskrat asked.
Smoke grinned. “Hell, yes. We can sure use that Sharps Big Fifty of yours.”
Muskrat nodded. “Good, ’cause I ain’t had so much fun since Bear Tooth and me went to war agin the Pawnee.”
“You went to war against the Pawnee tribes?” Cal asked, his eyes wide.
“Shore did, boy. It happened like this, me an’ Bear Tooth was trappin’ beaver up in the high lonesome near the Pawnee’s main camp, an’ a couple’a right pretty young squaws happened by one mornin’.” The old mountain man waggled his eyebrows. “Well, we was jest young bucks ourselves at the time, an’ one thing led to another an’ ’fore we knew it, we got to showin’ them pretty young thangs the difference ’tween a white man an’ an Injun when it came to . . .”
Smoke groaned. There was no stopping a mountain man once he’d started on one of his tall tales.
31
Slaughter held up his hand to halt the column of men riding behind him when he came to the sign saying “Big Rock, Colorado.”
He twisted in the saddle. “Men, load ’em up six and six, and watch your butts. I don’t know if Monte Carson is in this town or not, but if he isn�
�t, we’re gonna raise hell until they tell us where he’s hiding.”
Behind him, men pulled Winchesters and shotguns out of saddle boots and cradled them in their arms. They were ready to go to war, and each one felt there wasn’t a town in the West that could stand up to a group such as theirs. Shopkeepers and pilgrims and cowboys were simply no match for men trained to use their guns to make war, and the sooner these citizens realized that, the sooner Slaughter would pay them their money.
“What do you think, boys?” Slaughter said to Whitey and Swede as they rode into town.
Swede shook his head. “I just hope it’s gonna be as easy as you think it is, Boss. Treein’ a western town ain’t never been done before.”
“There is a first time for everything, Swede,” Slaughter said. “This is the roughest bunch of men I’ve ever had the pleasure to ride with. There ain’t a one of them that hadn’t killed more men than they can count. Hell, with this band of desperadoes, I could take Dodge City itself.”
Whitey pulled his Greener express gun from his saddle boot and broke it open, checking his loads. “I just want a chance at that Johnny West, or whatever he’s callin’ himself today.” He snapped the gun closed with a savage grin. “I’m gonna spread his guts all over Main Street if he’s in town.”
Slaughter glanced at the albino. “A piece of advice, Whitey. I’ve seen West draw, so don’t give him a chance to go for his gun. He’s snake-quick and that shotgun won’t do you no good if he feeds you a lead pill first.”
“He won’t even have time to blink before I blow him all to hell,” Whitey growled, his eyes fierce.
“Hey, Boss,” Swede said, his head swiveling back and forth as he looked at buildings on either side of the street.
“What is it now, Swede?” Slaughter said, impatient with Swede’s constant whining.
“There’s something wrong here.”
“What’a you mean?”
“There ain’t nobody on the street. It looks like the town’s deserted.”
Slaughter looked around. For once, Swede was making some sense. Something was out of kilter here, all right. There wasn’t a citizen in sight, not even a dog or a chicken. Something was going on, and Slaughter began to worry that perhaps he’d underestimated the ease with which they would take the town.
Heart of the Mountain Man Page 21
