“Now, that’s it, Mule,” Smoke called. “The fight is over. If you get up, I’m going to hurt you. Stay down, man.”
“A thousand dollars if you’ll get up and fight, Mule!” Major shouted. “A thousand dollars, Mule.”
Smoke looked at the man, contempt in his eyes. Cosgrove was even sorrier than Smoke had first suspected. He returned his gaze to Mule Jackson.
The man was struggling to get to his feet.
“Don’t do it, Mule,” Smoke called. “Stay down.”
But Mule was furious, that rage shining in his eyes. There was a maddened look on his muddy face. He pulled himself out of the mire and crawled back up to the boardwalk. Slowly, he lifted his fists.
Smoke did the same.
The crowd was now totally silent, so quiet that Mule’s ragged breathing could be heard.
Then Mule made the worst mistake he could possibly make. He grinned at Smoke and said, “When I finish stompin’ you, gunfighter, I’m gonna snatch that wife of yours out of that wagon, tote her to a bed, and peel them jeans offen her down to her shinin’ bare butt. Then I’ll show her what pleasures a real man can give a woman.”
Killer and no-’count that Club Bowers was, he could but shake his head at that remark. Fat Fosburn put his hands to his face and stifled a moan. Jack Biggers’ mouth dropped open. And Major Cosgrove gasped at the stupidity of the man. Men had been hanged for saying less.
Smoke’s eyes turned as cold as the frozen Arctic. He slowly walked the distance between them and kicked out with one boot, the point of the boot catching Mule square in the balls. Mule screamed and doubled over. Smoke brought his knee up and the crowd could hear the bones crunch in Mule’s face.
Grabbing the man by his long greasy hair, Smoke straightened him up and began battering the man’s face and body with savage fists. He smashed the man to the boards, now slick with Mule’s blood, half a dozen times, each time dragging him back up and smashing him down again.
“He’s unconscious, baby,” Sally called from the wagon, just as Smoke drew back his bloody-gloved fist to strike again.
Smoke let Mule fall. He stood, this big last mountain man, his huge chest heaving with exertion and his eyes savage with killing fury. He turned and took a step toward Major Cosgrove.
“You hit me and I’ll sue you!” Major yelled.
The crowd exploded in laughter and Major’s face drained of blood, then filled to a high crimson of embarrassment.
Smoke nodded his head and stripped off his gloves. “You bet my wife five thousand dollars on this fight,” he panted the words. “Pay her. Right now, Cosgrove.”
“I don’t have that kind of money on me!”
“Then get it, you son-of-a-bitch!” Smoke shouted at him.
“You can’t … call me that!” Major said.
“He did,” Van Horn said. “Mayhaps you’d better strap on iron, Cosgrove. And just in case Smoke don’t feel up to meetin’ you, I’d be glad to take his place.”
“Look at me, Cosgrove!” Sally said.
Major cut his eyes. Sally’s rifle was to her shoulder, the muzzle pointed straight at Cosgrove’s chest. “Send someone for my money or you’re a dead man.”
“Whoooeee!” Clemmie hollered. “Sally, you are my kind of woman.” She cocked her head. “Well,” she amended that. “Sort of.”
Thirteen
Sally was five thousand dollars richer when she swung into the saddle and the four of them rode out of Red Rock to the cheers of most of the citizens of the town. Van Horn and Barrie had money in their pockets from betting on the fight, and all of them were still smiling over the public humiliation of Major Cosgrove. Mule Jackson still had not regained consciousness when the four rode out of town.
“It’s going to be all-out war now,” Smoke said, putting a damper on the high humor. “Cosgrove will have to come out fighting if he’s to regain any of his power.”
“I should have shot him,” Sally said.
“You’re mighty right about that,” Barrie said.
“Don’t encourage her,” Smoke said with a smile. “She’s getting as notorious as I am. She’ll start packing two guns tied down if this keeps up.”
Sally smiled at the good-natured kidding. But she knew her husband was right about Major Cosgrove; he would have to come out fighting if he was to maintain any semblance of his old power. Now, more than ever, Jenny was in danger. But there was no way the girl would consider leaving for her safety. She had that Jensen strain of courage coursing through her veins. And stubbornness, Sally added.
“I hate Mule Jackson,” Jenny said, after sitting enraptured, listening to the news of the day. “He gives me a spooky feeling, the way he looks at me.”
“He won’t be doing much looking for at least a month,” Sally said. “I have never seen a man beaten that thoroughly.”
“But he’ll be more dangerous now,” Smoke said, soaking his hands in warm salted water to keep down the swelling. “He’ll be carrying a powerful grudge against me.”
In the bunkhouse, Barrie was holding the floor. “I never seen nothin’ to compare with it,” he told the hands. “Mule didn’t even get one good lick in on Smoke. Smoke tore him down and whupped him to a fare-thee-well.”
“Mule had it coming,” Pasco said, sitting on his bunk, mending a tear in a shirt. “He killed a friend of mine with his fists. Killed him for no other reason than that he was Mexican.”
“Boys, this is shapin’ up to be a bad one,” Van Horn took the floor. “Up to now, it’s been mild. Now it’s gonna turn rough. You all ride with a spare six-shooter in your saddlebags and extra ammo. And you ride wary at all times. Cosgrove has got to come back at us for this day. So we might as well get ready for it.”
“You reckon he’ll hire more gunslingers?” Ford asked.
“Bet on it. He can’t afford to lose. If he does, he’ll have to leave the country.”
“Smoke really called him a son-of-a-bitch?” Ladd asked.
“Flat to his face.”
Ladd shook his head. “Smoke musta really been mad.”
“You could say that,” Van Horn’s reply was drily offered.
Doc White stepped out of his small clinic into the outer office and faced Sheriff Club Bowers. “Mule Jackson has received the most thorough beating I have ever seen given a man. It’s a miracle the man isn’t dead. While he was unconscious, I had the dentist come over and extract several teeth that were broken off. He is very nearly a total bruise from his face to his waistline. He has several cracked ribs, and if he didn’t sustain some type of internal injuries, I’ll be very surprised. I put so many stitches in his face I lost count. Oh, one other thing: that man who was kicked in the head by Jensen’s horse? He’s dead.”
Muttering under his breath, Club walked back to his office to find a very angry Major Cosgrove and an equally angry Jack Biggers there. The mayor, Fat Fosburn, sat calmly drinking coffee.
“Five thousand dollars!” Major stormed. “That damn uppity woman took five thousand dollars from me. At gunpoint. And you didn’t do a damn thing to stop it, Club.”
“Half the town heard you make the bet, Major,” Club told him. “It would have been worser had you tried to welch on her.”
Cosgrove did some more cussing and stomping around, then finally sat down. He threw his expensive hat on the floor. “And the man dared call me a son-of-a-bitch,” he wound down.
“Nick Norman just died,” Club told the men.
“Who cares?” Biggers replied. He stared at the sheriff. “I got Lonesome Ted Lightfoot ridin’ in this week. He’s bringing some of his friends with him.”
“I didn’t know Lightfoot had any friends,” Club said. “But thanks for telling me. Who’s comin’ with him?”
“Les Spivey, for sure. Maybe Curtis Brown.”
Club nodded and turned to the window facing the muddy street. He had had a good deal working here. Plenty of money and plenty of power. But he could sense that it was all coming to an end. It didn’t ma
ke any difference how many gunslicks Major and Jack and Fat brought in. Not any difference at all. The big three, Cosgrove, Biggers, and Fosburn, were beaten men. They just didn’t know it yet. But they were whipped.
The best thing for me to do, Club thought, is just pack up and pull out. Just get the hell gone from here. If I stay, I’m going to die.
“What are you thinking about?” Fosburn spoke to the sheriff’s back.
“Pullin’ out,” Club said honestly.
“Pulling out!” Major said, jumping to his feet. “Have you lost your mind? We’ve got a gravy train here. In a few years we can all be enormously wealthy men.”
Club turned to face the town’s power group. “We don’t have a few years. I don’t ’magine we have even a few months. Not if we continue buckin’ Smoke Jensen.”
“Jensen won’t be around in a few weeks,” Biggers said, sticking out his chin belligerently. “I got twenty-five of the best guns in these parts on my payroll with more coming in. There ain’t no way Jensen can survive all that.”
“Jensen’s had a hundred men chasin’ him before,” Club said, “includin’ friends of mine who will swear to this day they’ll never tangle with Smoke Jensen again. You forgettin’ a couple of years back when all them people were chasin’ him up in the mountains. He must have killed fifty of them, and Sally Jensen put lead in ten or twenty. You ’member last year, I think it was, that German feller, Count something-or-the-other, hired all those gunslingers to help him hunt down Smoke Jensen? Well, they hunted him until he got tired of it and made his stand. Do you know how many men died durin’ that foul-up? You couldn’t stack their bodies in these two rooms here and all them cells yonder. Listen to me, people. I know Smoke Jensen. He probably don’t remember me, but I damn sure remember him. Let me name you some men who had the bad judgment to brace him. Slick Finger Bob, Terry Smith, Tom Ritter, One-Eye Slim, Warner Frigo, Canning, Felter, Kid Austin, Grisson and Clark, Curly Rodgers, Curt Holt, Ed Malone, Boots Pierson, Harry Jennings, Blackjack Simpson. Richards, Potter, Stratton. Smoke Jensen killed nineteen men by himself in a ghost town over in Idaho. Then there’s Greeny, Lebert, and Augie. There was Dickerson, Brown, and Necker. Joiner and Wilson and Casey. There was Jack Waters and his three brothers. Then there was Lanny Ball and four of his friends. I think their names was Woody, Dalton, Lodi, and Sutton. Dad Estes had himself and his whole gang wiped out by Jensen. Cat Jennings and Barton and Mills and no-’count George Victor. Utah Slim — everybody’s heard of him — faced Smoke one day. That was the last thing he ever did. Pig-Face Phillips and a gunhand named Carson called Jensen out. They died in the dirt. You want me to name some more? Hell, I ain’t even scratched the surface yet!”
Club Bowers walked the floor, eyeballing each man there. “People, understand something: Smoke Jensen was raised by mountain men. He don’t fight like nobody you or me know. And when you get Smoke Jensen riled — and I’ve seen him riled — he’s like … well, a whole room full of grizzly bears. He’s …”
Jack Biggers waved him silent. “You’re lettin’ your imagination run away with you, Club. Jensen is a tough man. We all saw that when he fought Mule. But he’s still just a man. He ain’t got no supernatural powers.”
“Injuns say he does,” Fat Fosburn said. “I used to have some Injuns ridin’ with me in my gang, both breeds and full redskin. They were all scared slap to death of Smoke Jensen. You see, Smoke was sort of raised up by a mountain man called Preacher.”
That got everybody’s attention.
“Yeah,” Fat said with a smile. “Preacher hisself. The most famous mountain man of them all. Mean as a snake and tough as an oak tree. And he brought Smoke Jensen up to be just like him. And done a damn good job of it, too. Now you know why he’s so damn mean. Club’s right about Jensen to some degree. What we got to do, I’m thinkin’, is get us a good back-shooter in here.”
“You know one?” Major asked.
Fat smiled. “I’ve already sent for him.”
The man Fat had contacted despised Smoke Jensen with a hatred that bordered insanity. Preacher had killed his father with a knife back in the mid-fifties, after he’d caught the man trying to steal one of his horses. Peter Hankins had been a boy in his teens when it had happened. A boy who was already an accomplished thief, liar, pickpocket, murderer, and just about anything else evil he was big enough to be. Trappers had brought the elder Hankins back to the trading post and dumped him at Peter’s feet, telling him what had happened.
“Out here, boy,” a mountain man told him. “You don’t steal a man’s horse. A lot of times, that’s like givin’ a man the death sentence. Your pa got what he deserved. Let it lie. You go after Preacher, and he’ll kill you.”
Peter Hankins drifted East and joined the Union Army at the start of the War Between the States. He had always been expert with a rifle, and he was made a sniper. He loved it. He loved to kill from a distance. He especially loved to kill Southerners. He’d won medals for it. When the war ended, he drifted back West, joined a gang of scum and ne’er-do-wells, and a few years later was caught up in a completely unexpected fight with Preacher and a young man named Smoke Jensen. Smoke got lead into him, although Peter doubted the young man knew it at the time. His hip still bothered him because of that fight. So after that, he shared his hatred of Preacher with hatred of Smoke Jensen.
Now he had a chance to kill him and make a couple thousand dollars in the process. It was too good to pass up.
As soon as he received the wire, he bought a train ticket and was on his way, sleeping in the car with his horse and his Sharps “English Model” 1877 .45-caliber rifle. Peter hand-loaded his own ammunition (2.6-inch casing) and knew almost to the inch what distance they would carry, and they would carry accurately for more than fifteen hundred yards, providing the wind was not kicking up.
Peter would kill man, woman, or child. He made no distinction. He was a man utterly without morals. And he was looking forward to this job.
Smoke stepped out of the house for a breath of night air after another of Sally and Jenny’s excellent suppers. The men had staggered off to the bunk-house, all of them full as ticks. Three days after the fight, and his hands were no longer sore or swollen. There had been no trouble from Biggers, Cosgrove, or Fat. Smoke was not expecting any from Club Bowers. Scoundrel that he was, he was also a man who had been around and could read signs. Smoke had him a hunch that Club would pull out of this fight given just the slightest opportunity.
Van Horn walked up and stood silent for a moment, rolling a cigarette. “When you figure they’re gonna hit us, and how do you figure it?”
“Just as soon as they get everyone in here that’s coming in.”
“You know of a person name of Peter Hankins?”
“Peter Hankins?” Smoke mused. “Yes. I do. He’s a long-distance shooter. He uses a special made Sharps .45. Sharps made the rifle for about a year, I think. Made it for target shooters. It had something to do with English marksmanship rules, I believe. I’ve never seen one. Hankins, huh? My mentor killed Hankins’ father. Preacher caught him stealing horses and carved him up. That was years before I knew Preacher. I’ve known for a long time that Hankins hates me.”
“How old a man would he be?”
“Probably in his early to mid-forties. He was a teenager when Preacher killed his father back in ’55 or so. I have no idea what he looks like or where he lives. He’s a loner. He comes in, bodies fall, he leaves. Usually without anyone ever seeing him. How’d you find out about him coming in?”
Van Horn smiled. “Oh, those sources of mine I told you about.”
Smoke chuckled. “You mean the girls at the Golden Cherry, don’t you?”
Van Horn laughed quietly. “Not much gets by you, does it, Smoke?”
“I can’t afford to let much by me, Van. I have too many people who want to see me dead.”
“I do know the feelin’,” the old gunfighter said. “But if they attack this ranch, they’re gonna be in for a tough fi
ght of it. That’s a salty bunch yonder in the bunkhouse.”
“They’ll attack. It’s coming. That’s why I sold off most of the cattle, except for the good breeding stock, and had you bunch the rest in that box. Will the girls tell you when Hankins gets into town?”
“Within the hour.”
“Let me know. Tomorrow we all work close to the ranch. We’ve got to get ready for anything that might come our way.”
“See you in the morning.”
Smoke was up before dawn, as usual, and with coffee in hand, stepped outside to meet the dawning, about a half hour away. Wolf Parcell had been waiting on him.
“What’s on your mind, Wolf?”
“Let’s take the fight to them. Kill them all,” the old mountain man said coldly and bluntly. “End it. Then the girl-child can live in peace.”
Smoke smiled in the darkness. Mountain men were not known for their gentle loving nature toward anyone who had openly declared themselves an enemy. And for the most part, that philosophy was shared by Smoke. But he had learned to temper his baser urgings … to a degree. “Those days are just about gone, Wolf. Besides, we’ve got to keep public sentiment on our side.”
The old man harrumped at that but said nothing in rebuttal for the moment. He drained his coffee cup and stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth. He chomped and chewed and spat and finally said, “Two Injun friends of mine come to the bunkhouse last night. Told me a whole passel of gunslingers rode into town ‘bout ten o’clock.”
“I thought I heard something about one.”
“Figured you would. Injuns asked about you. I told ’em you wasn’t near ‘bouts ugly as Preacher, and you was sizable bigger and somewhat smarter.”
Smoke chuckled. And waited. He knew Wolf had more on his mind and would get to it in his own good time.
“Said they was a double handful of the gunslingers,” Wolf said, after he spat. “They didn’t know no names.”
“The odds are getting longer, aren’t they?”
“Yep. But we can handle them come the time. You’ll cut your puma loose soon enough I reckon. And we’ll be right there with you.”
Blood of the Mountain Man Page 10
