Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “You hammer-headed no-’count!” the rider now on foot yelled. “I’ll take a club and a chain and beat you bloody when I catch up with you.”

  That made things easier for Smoke. He had no use for a man who would abuse any animal.

  Smoke slipped up behind the man and tapped him on the shoulder.

  The man spun around, a hand dropping to the butt of his gun. Smoke smacked him in the mouth with a gloved fist and the man dropped like a rock, stunned but not out. Smoke reached down, hauled him up by the front of his shirt, and popped him again, this time on the side of the jaw. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he was out.

  Smoke stripped him down to the buff and tossed his clothes and boots into the creek and left him lying on the dewy grass. The man’s drawers needed a good washing anyway.

  He heard another rider before he could spot him. “Dewey?” the rider called in a hoarse whisper. “I got your horse, man. What’s the trouble?”

  Smoke waited.

  “It’s Frankie, Dewey. Answer me, boy.”

  Smoke suddenly screamed like a panther, and Frankie’s horse went crazy. Frankie left the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Smoke could almost hear the air leaving his lungs at the impact. Smoke was all over the man before he could even think of recovering. One savage blow to the jaw put Frankie in dreamland for a while. Then Smoke gave him the same treatment he gave Dewey, slinging the man’s gunbelt over one shoulder. He caught up Frankie’s horse and talked to the animal for a moment, calming it. He looped the gunbelts over the saddle horn and rode south, toward the Triangle JB. He hadn’t gone half a mile before he was hailed.

  “Frankie! Over here. It’s Teddy. Let’s have a smoke.” He was going to have a Smoke, all right — but not the kind he was hoping for. “Have you seen Dewey?”

  Smoke rode right up to him and hit him with the coiled-up rope he’d brought. Fifty feet of stiff rope is a formidable weapon, and the rider was knocked out of the saddle to the ground, his mouth and face bleeding. Smoke stepped down and popped him. Teddy sighed and went to sleep.

  When Teddy woke up, he was buck-assed naked and a good eight miles from the ranch.

  Ten

  Jack Biggers was mad to the core and his face beet red as he stood in front of Club Bowers’ desk. “Now, damn it, Club. I ain’t gonna take no more of this. Three of my top guns come staggering up in the middle of the night, nekked as the day they was borned, feet all bleedin’ and cut, and you’re sittin’ there tellin’ me you ain’t gonna arrest Smoke Jensen?”

  “Settle down, Jack,” Club told him. “If we pull a district judge in here, he’s gonna want to know how come your men, on a night with no moon, so black it was like a mine pit, could identify Smoke Jensen. Now, Jack, times are changin’. He’ll turn Jensen loose — providin’ I ever get him to jail in the first place — and put your hands in jail for perjury. Times ain’t like they used to be. Them days are over.”

  “Now what?” the voice came from the front door.

  Biggers turned around to face Major Cosgrove. The man was approximately the same size as Jensen, but carrying just a bit of fat around the jowls and belly. He was in his mid-forties. Behind him stood his mine foreman, Mule Jackson. A huge bear of a man, with arms and hands and shoulders even more heavily muscled than Smoke Jensen, and a cruel face.

  Jack, slightly embarrassed, told Cosgrove what had happened.

  Major (that was his real name, not a military title) shook his head in disgust and said, “Forget about bringing charges. Any judge, even a bought one, would have to throw it out. Were the men on Jenny’s property?”

  “Well, yeah. Just like we agreed to do.”

  “That land is posted. Forget it.” Major sat down. “Coffee, Mule.”

  Mule lumbered across the floor and poured his boss a cup, carefully sugared it, and set the cup on the desk.

  Major sipped the hot brew cautiously and said, “We have to proceed very carefully on this, gentlemen. Jensen is a rich man in his own right. Very few people know that he has a freak vein of gold on his ranch, the Sugarloaf. But it’s a deep vein. He could tap into that anytime he wished and hire an army. His wife, Sally, has more money than the King and Queen of England. Her family is the richest in all of New England.”

  “So what do we do?” Biggers demanded. “Give up?”

  Major shook his head. “No. We just wait. Only we four and Fat know those mountains on the west side of Jenny’s spread, which she owns — or rather, Smoke does, until she comes of age — contain the richest ore deposits of this strike. No, we do what we should have done from the outset. We act like civilized men and buy her spread. Not for the paltry sum we originally offered, but for what it’s worth plus the cattle on it. Whatever amount we offer, there is a hundred, a thousand times that in gold in those mountains. That much money will set the girl up back East and we’ll be rid of her. Sally Jensen is a businesswoman, very sharp, very astute. She will see the sense in our offer. Bet on it.”

  “Riders comin,’ Mister Smoke!” Jimmy yelled from the yard. “Three riders and a buggy. It’s Major Cosgrove in the buggy.”

  Smoke stepped outside, buckling his gunbelt around his waist. Sally stood by a window, her short-barreled carbine at the ready.

  Major stepped down from the buggy and knocked the dust from his dark business suit. He smiled at Smoke. “Sir, I am Major Cosgrove, owner of the Cosgrove Mine Company. Might I talk some business with you?”

  Smoke looked at the huge man on the huge mule. Mule Jackson and Smoke Jensen took an immediate dislike to each other.

  Smoke knew the type well. A bully, a head-knocker, a man who liked to hurt people. A man who was stupid and didn’t know it.

  “Certainly, Mister Cosgrove,” Smoke told him. “Come on in the house. We have fresh coffee.”

  Seated in the living room, Cosgrove sipped his coffee and complimented Jenny and Sally on its flavor. The women smiled and said nothing.

  “I’m afraid,” Major said, “I have been cast in a bad light by some people. As a businessman, I must make a profit to stay in business. But not at the expense of innocent people. Jenny, you have had some trouble out here on your ranch, but none of that trouble came from me. You may believe that, or not believe it, but it is the truth. It is no secret that I wish to buy your ranch. But only at a fair price, both to you, and to me.”

  Smoke had ridden the ranch and knew approximately how many cattle were on the spread. He knew the price of beef and the price of land this lush. And so did Sally. They both listened to the offer Cosgrove made, and both knew it was a fair one.

  Mule waited outside, squatting like a great ape by the buggy. Hands came and went and his eyes took them all in. There was not a man among them who would last a minute with him in a fight. Not even Smoke Jensen.

  But Major Cosgrove, no stranger to toe-to-toe fighting, thought differently. Jensen was quite another matter. Major had seen eyes like that before, but not often. They were the eyes of a man who walked through life with supreme confidence. A man who took no water from any man. Mule was bigger and stronger than Jensen, but in a fight, Mule would lose because Jensen was smarter and would play on Mule’s stupidity.

  Major wondered if he could take Jensen in a fight. It would be interesting, at best. At worst, he would get his brains kicked out by the gunfighter many called the last mountain man.

  “That certainly is a fair offer, Major,” Smoke said. “And I assure you that Jenny will give it some thought. But I must tell you that at the present time, she is not interested in selling the ranch.”

  Major Cosgrove smiled. Thinly. He had been sure they would jump at the offer. He kept his anger under control, but it was with an effort. He was a man accustomed to getting his own way. All the time. Failure was not a part of his plans.

  Too much money, Sally thought. I’ve gone over the books carefully and know what this place is worth. He’s offering too much money. Why? She cut her eyes at Smoke and he nodded in understanding and agreement
.

  “Well,” Major said, carefully placing his cup and saucer on a table. “It’s been an enjoyable first meeting and I hope a mutually profitable one. Will you two be staying long?” He directed the question at Sally.

  “Just as long as it takes,” she replied.

  And that didn’t set well with Major Cosgrove either. This Sally Jensen was an uppity woman who needed to be slapped down into her place. This was a man’s world, and women didn’t belong in business. Before this was all over, he felt he just might have to show Sally Jensen a thing or two.

  After Cosgrove had left, Sally said, “His offer was far too high. He offered nearly twice what the place is worth.”

  “Yes,” Smoke said. “But Van Horn tells me there is no gold on the spread.” He got up and walked to the window and stared out at the mountains to the west. “It’s up there,” he said softly. “Bet on it. Just like back on the Sugarloaf. The veins are spotty but run deep.” He went to the desk and got out the deed to the ranch, going over it carefully. “No question about it, Jenny. You not only own those mountains to the west, you own the mineral rights as well.”

  “You mean there is gold there?” the girl questioned.

  “Yes. Probably a lot of it. But up there, it would take a lot of capital to get set up. Cosgrove has that capital. One person, working alone, could probably dig out enough to make a fair living. No more than that. That’s just my opinion.”

  “So what do we do, Uncle Smoke?”

  “Sit back and wait. But while we wait, we round up some cattle and sell them to get some money to operate on.”

  “Not that we don’t have ample funds,” Sally added. “And that’s something you can bet Cosgrove knows.”

  “True. Which is why he won’t wait too long before making his next move.”

  “And that will be?” Jenny questioned.

  “Unpleasant,” Smoke said flatly. “And soon.”

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” Smoke asked Sally.

  The morning after Major Cosgrove had visited the ranch and made his offer, Sally was putting the finishing touches to her dressing, tying a bandanna around her throat.

  “Positive.”

  “I wish I could talk you out of it.”

  “No way, husband dear.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “With all my heart. I just don’t trust those chippies at the Golden Cherry.” She shook her head. “What a name for a place like that.”

  Smoke turned his head to hide his smile. But Sally caught it.

  “You find something amusing, dear?”

  “Not a thing, dear.”

  “Who runs this … establishment?” Sally asked.

  “Van Horn tells me the madam is a lady called Clementine Feathers.”

  Sally muttered something under her breath. Smoke did not ask her to repeat it. He really was not looking forward to meeting his … employees, so to speak. “Jenny wants to ride into town with us.”

  Sally gave him a look that would wilt cactus.

  “Ah, right!” he said brightly. “Not a good day for her to do that.”

  “Van Horn and Barrie will be riding in with us,” Sally said, pulling on her gloves. “Barrie says he wants to look over the town. Get a taste of us, in his words.”

  “That warhoss wants to check out any possible troublemakers and mark them down in his mind,” Smoke said. “But I sure wonder why, all of a sudden, he showed up here.”

  “Van Horn is mysterious about that, too,” Sally said. Her slight anger was gone. “But I get the feeling that they both might be hiding something. And before you ask, no, I have no idea what it might be.” She smiled. “Ready to ride for town?”

  Smoke always worried when that smile appeared, for Sally was not a woman bound by the dictates and constraints of the time. She did what she damn well wanted to do, whenever she damn well wanted to do it.

  And Smoke had him a hunch that today she just might decide to do something.

  To surprise him.

  The town had a feel to it that they all sensed when riding in. The streets were deserted, with not so much as a dog nor a cat present. All the horses had been stabled, and the hitchrails were all vacant.

  “Something’s up,” Van Horn said.

  “We been watched,” Barrie said. “Those that want the ranch has got people constant on all sides. I was tempted to shoot one out of the saddle the other day. I resisted the temptation,” he added drily.

  Since it was a miner’s boom town, there were as many saloons as other stores on both sides of the twisting street. And the four riders were very much aware of eyes on them as they rode up the street.

  “I ain’t felt a friendly eye on me since we rode in,” Van Horn said. “I’m gettin’ the feelin’ I ain’t welcome in this place.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice. “I just can’t imagine why that would be.”

  Smoke was riding Buck today, since the big horse had nearly torn down his stall in his irritation over Smoke daring to ride another horse.

  The unknown voice, calling from concealment in a whisper, reached them. “It’s a setup, Smoke. Watch out.”

  “Miss Sally,” Barrie spoke with hardly any lip movement. “I hate to say this, but the safest place for you just might be in the Golden Cherry. And we’re right here on it.”

  “Go, Sally,” Smoke said firmly. Softening his tone, and with a smile, he added, “Just remember, what’s mine is half yours.”

  Both Van Horn and Barrie struggled to suppress a chuckle at that. They couldn’t contain it.

  Sally noticed the expression on the men’s faces and smiled. “Just for that, I might bar you men from entering this pleasure palace.”

  Van Horn laughed. “Ma’am, at my age, that ain’t no threat at all.”

  “Be careful,” Sally said, then turned her horse into the half-circle drive of the Golden Cherry.

  A henna-haired woman stepped out onto the porch of the two-story home. “Honey, you get in here quick. Moses will take care of your horse. This damn town is about to explode.”

  Sally stepped out of the saddle and handed the reins to the huge, heavily muscled black man with any easy smile on his lips.

  “You go on up to the house, Mrs. Jensen,” he said. “You’ll be as safe here as in a church.”

  “I’m Clementine Feathers,” the bottle-redhead said, taking Sally’s arm. “I run this joint. That husband of yours is some man, ain’t he?”

  “He is that,” Sally said, looking around her. “My showing up here should give the good women of the town something to talk about, shouldn’t it?”

  Clementine laughed. “Honey, when the lamps are turned down and the covers pulled back, there ain’t no such thing as a good woman.”

  Sally smiled. “Would you by any chance have some tea?”

  “Honey, I’ve got the best tea this side of ’Frisco. Come on in and meet the girls. We’ve all been wondering when you’d show up. Jenny is a fine little lady. We all like her.”

  “That there’s a hell of a woman you got, Smoke,” Barrie said. “She’ll do to ride the river with.”

  “Believe me, I know. Let’s head over to the Golden Plum and have us a beer. I need to look the place over.”

  “You haven’t been there yet?” Barrie asked.

  “No. But I think now is a dandy time to visit. I feel like there must be a hundred guns pointed at me.”

  “Cosgrove didn’t wait long, did he?” Van Horn asked, as the men reined up in front of the saloon and swung down.

  “I guess he figures it would be a lot easier to deal with Jenny than with me,” Smoke replied, stepping up onto the boardwalk.

  About a dozen locals were seated around tables, and five men stood at the far end of the bar. Smoke knew only one of them, a hired gun out of Utah who called himself Stoner.

  The interior of the saloon was as fancy as anything Smoke had ever seen, with heavy drapes and polished brass spittoons. The long bar was gleaming. Gambling tables of all descripti
ons were spaced across the floor. The place was unusually quiet for this time of day.

  “Remember me, Barrie?” one of the five men at the bar asked. He had an ugly-looking knife scar running down one side of his face.

  “Can’t say as I do,” the ex-town tamer replied. He looked at the barkeep. “Beer.”

  Smoke ordered coffee and Van Horn asked for rye.

  “You gunned down my brother in New Mexico Territory some years back,” Scarface said.

  “Do tell. I don’t remember it, so he must not have been very hard to handle. Or very important,” he added.

  Barrie was on the prod and Smoke wondered about that. Everything he had ever heard about the man added up to the picture of a careful man, not one to push or crowd.

  There’s more here than I know, Smoke concluded.

  “Hey, old man,” another of the five called to Van Horn. He was young, not more than twenty-four or -five, and very foolish if he was seeking trouble with Van Horn. Van Horn was as much a legend as any man who ever strapped on six-shooters.

  “There’s one in every crowd,” Van Horn muttered.

  “The famous Smoke Jensen,” Stoner said, sarcasm thick in the words.

  “What’s your interest in this affair, Stoner?” Smoke asked. “Other than making war on seventeen-year-old girls, that is.”

  “You ain’t no seventeen-year-old girl.”

  “You want to make war on me, Stoner?” Smoke lifted the coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip.

  Stoner stepped away from the bar, both hands hovering over his guns. “I never did believe all that crap folks say about you, Jensen. You can die just like any other man.”

  “But not this day,” Smoke said, then shot the man in the belly.