The crowd no longer cheered. They stood in silence and watched with satisfaction in their eyes as Max Huggins’s man was beaten half to death in front of their eyes. Vicky Turner stood in silence, shocked by the brutality taking place in front of her eyes. Sally Jensen stood beside her. The wife of Smoke Jensen knew fully well what her husband was doing, and she approved of it. Men like Dek Phillips could not understand compassion because they possessed none. They understood only one thing: brute force. That was the only thing they could relate to. And Smoke was giving Dek a lesson in it that he would never forget.
When Dek Phillips finally measured his length in the dirt and did not get up, Smoke walked to a horse trough and bathed his face and hands. He straightened up and said to Pete, “Tie him across his saddle and take him to the edge of Hell’s Creek.”
“The man is injured!” Robert Turner shouted. “He needs medical attention.”
“Shut up, boy!” Joe Walsh spoke from the edge of the crowd. He had ridden up unnoticed and sat his saddle during the final minutes of the fight. “Dek Phillips just got all the attention his kind deserve.” The crowd muttered their agreement with that.
Sal said, “This ain’t back east, Doctor. The laws are still few out here. You’re a nice fellow, I’ll give you that, but you got some adjustin’ to do if you’re gonna make it out here. You might feel sorry for a rabid dog, but you don’t try to comfort it. You just kill it. You best learn that.”
His face stiff with anger, Dr. Robert Turner took Victoria’s hand and left the street, walking back to his office.
Pete rode out, leading the horse with Dek Phillips tied across the saddle.
Joe Walsh told several of his hands to accompany Pete, to act as guards in case some of the scum at Hells’Creek tried to waylay him.
Smoke walked back to the hotel to bathe the sweat and grime from him and change into fresh clothing.
Henry Draper, editor of the Barlow Bugle, headed back to his office to write the story of how the mighty hired gunfighter Dek Phillips had fallen under the fists of Marshal Smoke Jensen. He knew he could sell the story to dozens of newspapers back east. The reading public loved it.
The crowds broke up into small groups, talking over and rehashing the fight. With each victory they were stronger as a town, becoming closer-knit. The advance party from back east was due in the next day, and soon they would have a bank. Max Huggins would continue trying to destroy them—they all knew that—but they all sensed he would fail. And they owed it all to one man: Smoke Jensen.
Max Huggins had just come from the bedside of Dek Phillips. The horse doctor who had attended the gunfighter had said the man would probably live, but he would be marked forever. His jaw was broken, his ribs were cracked, one arm was broken, a lot of his teeth had been knocked out. And worse, the horse doctor said, Dek Phillips’s spirit appeared to be broken.
“The trial will probably last two ... three days,” Val Singer broke into Max’s thoughts. “lt’ll take a good two weeks for the prison wagon to get around to pickin’ up the boys. By that time, the bank will be operatin’. We hit the bank, loot the town, lift us some petticoats and have some fun with the women, and then strike out for greener pastures. What’d you think, Max?”
Max was thinking about Smoke Jensen. For three weeks, the big man had been exercising, running several miles a day and working out. He might not be able to beat Smoke Jensen with a gun—and that was up for grabs, for Max knew he was one of the best with a short gun—but there was no doubt in Max’s mind that he was the better fighter of the two.
But how much time did he have? His informant in Barlow had sent him word that Judge Garrison and Smoke Jensen were gathering up old arrest warrants on him from his days back east. Two or three weeks might be cutting it very close.
And his informant had also told him that old warrants were being looked at against Red Malone. If the authorities back east came through, the rancher would have to run with Max. And Max knew the man would never agree to do that. The man would stand his ground and die with a six-shooter in his hand. He was too bullheaded to do anything else.
With a deep sigh, Big Max turned his attentions to the group of outlaws in his office. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We’re out of time here. Smoke Jensen has beaten us. Red may not see it that way, but I do. Smoke has used fists and guns to bring civilization to our doorstep.”
Max eyeballed the group, one at a time. Val Singer, Warner Frigo, Dave Poe, Alex Bell, Sheriff Paul Cartwright. “We’re all wanted men, maybe not under the names we’re using now, but wanted nevertheless. Two or three weeks is going to be cutting it awfully close. But I understand that is the way it’s going to have to be. Monies have to be in the bank before we hit the town. To hell with those in jail. If we can get them out during the raid, fine. If not, that’s all right, too. Are we in agreement with that?”
They were in agreement.
“The next problem,” Max said, “is where do we run to?”
Everyone had a different idea. Cartwright couldn’t go back to California. He was wanted out there. Singer couldn’t go east. He was wanted in six or seven states in that direction.... And so it was with them all.
Max waved them silent. “All right, all right! Enough. It might be best if we split up after the raid anyway. We’ll pick a place to meet and divvy up the loot, and then split up. And boys,” he eyeballed each of them, “I shall be personally leading this raid.”
The outlaws all exchanged glances. Max had master-minded a lot of raids, but none of them had ever known him to lead one. They were curious, and Val Singer put that curiosity into words.
“I have plans for a certain lady in that town,” Max said with a smile. “I want her to know a real man just once in her life ... just before I kill her.”
“Well, if you gonna be draggin’ some squallin’ petticoat around with you,” Warner Frigo said, “I think it’s best we do split up. We’re gonna have enough money to divvy up to buy the best women in any crib in the world.”
“Yeah,” Dave Poe said. “That don’t make no sense, Max. It’s too risky. Once we’re out of this area, when words gets out about harmin’ a woman, they’ll be posses lookin’ for you all over the place. And you do have a tendency to stand out in a crowd,” he added dryly.
“It’ll die down. It always has before. Hell, don’t you boys get righteous on me. You’ve all raped before. Besides, you don’t even know who I have in mind.”
“Sure we do,” Alex Bell said. “Has to be the doctor’s wife, Victoria Turner.”
Max smiled. “Nope. Her name is Sally. Sally Jensen.”
20
The trial of the outlaws and the arsonist went off without a hitch. Judge Garrison handed down the toughest sentences he could under the law and the territorial prison was notified. The returning wire said it would be two or three weeks before the wagon could come and pick them up.
Smoke noticed the now-familiar buggy rolling out of town, heading north. He walked to the livery, threw a saddle on Star, and headed out, staying to the high ground, which oftentimes ran parallel to the road but high-up.
He trailed the buggy to within a few miles of Hell’s Creek and watched as Max Huggins rode out to meet it. Max and the driver of the buggy sat for a long time on a log, talking, Huggins with one big arm around the other person’s shoulder.
That night he told Sally about it. She shook her head in disgust. “Things are just never what they seem to be, are they, honey?”
“This thing isn’t, that’s for sure. Problem is, I don’t know what to do about it. No laws have been broken. The only thing broken will be the faith of the townspeople.”
“And a broken heart when the other partner in the marriage learns of it,” she added.
“Yeah. If they don’t already know about it.”
“I hadn’t thought about that. Oh, Smoke, I just can’t believe that. Just thinking about it makes me sick!”
“I’ll have to face one or the other pretty soon, I reckon. A
nd I’m not looking forward to that. Well, let’s get off of it. How’s the bank coming along?”
“I just got word this morning. It’ll open for business next Monday morning. The money will be coming in day after tomorrow. And it will be heavily guarded.”
She handed him a telegraph and let him read it. He whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Yes. And that will be too good an opportunity for Max to pass up.”
“I wish you and Victoria would get out of here, Sally. The two of you go on back to the Sugarloaf.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m staying. We’ll leave together, Smoke.”
He had expected that answer so it came as no surprise to him. “I’d say I have two weeks before Max hits us. Maybe three. But no longer. I think those rumors the snitch carried to him about those old warrants back east has him spooked. And I’m told that Red Malone is getting jumpy, too.”
She smiled at him. “The Sugarloaf will look good, won’t it?”
“You bet.” He got up and found his hat. “I’m going to prowl the town for a while.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No. I just want to check around.”
“I’m going to read. If you’re late, I’ll leave the lamp low.”
Smoke walked down the stairs and through the lobby, speaking to the night clerk at the desk. The Grand Hotel was full, for with the coming of the paper, a doctor, two lawyers, and a half-dozen new businesses, the town was experiencing a growth unseen since its inception.
The saloon was doing a land-office business and had hired two nighttime waitresses and a piano player. The piano player was banging out a tune, the melody floating on the night air.
Pete walked up, spurs jingling softly. “Horse tied out of sight down by the creek,” he told Smoke. “I never seen the brand before. Fancy riggin’. Rifle is gone from the boot. We might have us a back-shooter in town.”
“You tell the others?”
“Goin’ to now.”
“OK. Watch yourself.”
Pete gone, Smoke stepped back into the shadows created by the storefront and lifted his eyes, inspecting the rooftops of the buildings across the street. He squatted down and removed his spurs, laying them behind a bench on the boardwalk.
Standing up, he freed his .44’s and slipped into an alleyway, walking around behind the buildings. He paused at the alley’s end, staying close to the hotel’s outside wall. He listened, all senses working overtime.
Smoke watched a man come out of a privy and walk into the hotel, through the back door. The lamplight inside flashed momentarily as the door opened. Smoke closed his eyes to retain his night vision. He opened his eyes and walked on, slipping around the buildings.
He angled around Martha’s Dress Shoppe and came out behind the cafe. A slight movement ahead of him flattened Smoke against the back wall of the cafe, eyes searching the darkness. He caught a faint glint of moonlight off what appeared to be the barrel of a carbine—short-barreled for easier handling. Smoke waited, muscles tensed. He pulled his right-hand .44 from leather and, with his left hand over the hammer to reduce the noise, cocked it.
The man behind the gun stepped away from the building, and for an instant, Smoke could see his face. It was no one he had ever seen before. The man was clean-shaven, his clothing dark and looking neat. The man took a step, a silent one. He wore no spurs.
Slowly, Smoke knelt down, carefully stretching out on the cool ground to offer the man less of a target. “You looking for me, partner?” Smoke softly called.
The man turned and fired, the slug striking the wood of the building some four feet above Smoke’s head. Smoke fired, the .44 slug hitting the rifle and tearing the weapon from the man’s hands. The gunman ran back into the darkness.
“Yo, Smoke!” Sal called from the street.
“I’m all right. Stay under cover. I’m thinking this man is not alone.” Smoke rolled to his left as some primal warning jumped through his brain.
Two fast shots, coming from different weapons, tore up the ground where he had been lying.
Smoke caught the muzzle flashes of one of the guns and snapped off a fast shot. The gunhand screamed as the slug ripped his belly and sent him tumbling off the roof of the saddle shop. He hit the ground and did not move.
An unknown gunhand stepped out of his hiding place behind Smoke and leveled his pistol. Jim and Sal fired as one from the main street, both slugs striking the man, knocking him off his boots.
Smoke rolled and came up on his feet, behind a tree. Both his hands were filled with .44’s, hammers back. A slug ripped the night, burning through the bark of the tree, knocking chips flying. Smoke stepped to the other side of the tree and fired twice, left and right guns working. The man doubled over, both shots taking him in the stomach. Smoke ran to him and kicked the dropped guns out of his reach. He knelt down beside the hard-hit man just as his deputies came running up.
“You’re not going to make it,” Smoke told the bloodied man. “Who hired you?”
The man grinned through his pain. “Told the boys we was gonna be buckin’ a stacked deck comin’ after you.” He groaned. “But the money was just too good to pass up.”
“Whose money?” Smoke asked.
“You go to hell!” the man said, then closed his eyes and died.
“This one’s still alive!” Sal called, kneeling beside the man who had fallen off the roof. “But not for long. I think his neck’s broke.”
“Hell, that’s Blanchard,” Pete said, looking down at the man. “I thought he was in prison down in New Mexico.” He knelt down. “Come on, Blanchard,” he urged. “Go out clean for once in your life. This is your last chance, man. Who hired you?”
Two dozen people, men and women, in various dress, including nightshirts and long-handles, had gathered around.
“Huggins from over to ... Hell’s Creek,” the dying man gasped. “Pulled us up from Utah. We rode the train. Me and Dixson. Dee was ... he rode over from Idaho.”
“Dee Mansfield?” Smoke questioned.
“Yeah.”
“That his horse down by the crick?” Sal asked.
“Yeah. He ... Gettin’ cold and I can’t ... move my hands.”
Dr. Turner pushed through the crowd and knelt down, looking at the man. It was a quick look. Blanchard had died.
The doctor stood up and faced Smoke. “When is this carnage going to end, Jensen?”
“Whenever Red Malone and Max Huggins call it off,” Smoke told him. He spotted the undertaker. “Haul them off,” he said. “OK, folks, show’s over. Let’s break it up.”
“No, it isn’t,” Tom Johnson said, walking up. “Melvin Malone just rode into town. He’s calling you out, Smoke.”
“Damn!” the word exploded from Smoke’s mouth. “I knew that kid would cut his wolf loose someday.” He punched out his empties and loaded up full. “Sal, clear the streets.”
“I demand an end to this barbaric practice of justice at the point of a gun!” Dr. Turner said. “Just arrest him, Marshal. You don’t have to kill him. You have the manpower to overwhelm him.”
Smoke looked at the man in the dim light. “You ... demand, Robert? Who in the hell do you think you are, anyway? Demand? Overwhelm him? How? He’s come to kill, Robert, not talk. He’ll shoot anyone who tries to disarm him.”
“You don’t know that, Smoke. That’s just conjecture on your part. Law and order must prevail out here. It’s past time.”
“Why don’t you go disarm him, then, Doctor?” Sal suggested.
“I ... uh ... I’m not a lawman,” the doctor said, his face coloring. “That’s your job.”
“Yeah, right,” Sal’s reply was dour. “I think that was the reason I hung up a badge the last time I wore one.”
Smoke turned his back to the doctor and walked away, his deputies moving with him, the crowd following along.
“He’s in the saloon,” Tom called. “You goin’ to kill the punk, Smoke?”
“I hope not,” Sm
oke muttered.
“There might not be any other way, Smoke,” Jim pointed out.
“I know. But 1 can always hope.”
Smoke stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed open the batwings. The piano player stopped his pounding of the ivories when he spotted Smoke. The waitresses moved as far away from the bar as they could get. The long bar was already void of customers. Only Melvin stood there, a whiskey bottle in front of him, his right hand close to the butt of his Colt.
“Come on in, Jensen,” Melvin said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“You were banned from this town, Melvin. Leave now and I won’t toss you in jail.”
“You’ll never toss me in jail again, Jensen. Me, or anyone else for that matter.”
“Boy, don’t be a fool!” Smoke snapped at him. He knew that his plan to move close enough to slug the young man was out the window. Kill was written on Melvin’s face, and his eyes were unnaturally bright with the blood lust that reared up within him. “I’ve faced a hundred young hot-shots like you. They’re all dead, boy. Dead, or crippled.”
Smoke could tell that Melvin was not drunk. The young man had enough sense about him to lay off the bottle before a gunfight. Alcohol impaired the reflexes.
Melvin laughed at the warning.
Smoke was thinking fast. He had been warned that Melvin was very, very quick and very, very accurate, so any idea of just wounding the young man was out of the question. When Melvin dragged iron, Smoke was going to have to get off the first shot and make it a good one.
“Boy, think of your father,” Smoke tried a different tact. “Your sister. Think what your dying is going to do to them.”
“Me, dying?” The young man was clearly startled. “Me? Oh, you got it all wrong, Jensen. You’re the one that’s going to be pushin’ up flowers, not me.”
“Listen to me, boy,” Smoke said, doing his best to talk some sense into Melvin. “You ...”
“Shut up!” Melvin yelled, stepping away from the bar. “You’re a coward, Jensen. You’re afraid to draw on me.”
War Of The Mountain Man Page 18
