War of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Smoke leaned over the side and saw the skeletal form of the water tower ahead, faintly illuminated by the dim light of a nearly cloud-covered moon.

  Through the odor of smoke pouring from the stack of the locomotive, Jensen could almost taste the wetness in the air. A storm was brewing, and from the build-up of clouds, it was going to be a bad one.

  He looked back at the lantern-lit interior of the car, the lamps turned down very low. The passengers, including Sally, were still sleeping.

  The train gradually slowed and came to a gentle halt, something most experienced engineers tried to do late at night so the paying passengers wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Smoke caught the furtive movement out of the corner of his eyes. Men on the water tower. With rifles.

  One big hand closed around the butt of a .44. He hesitated. Were they railroad men, posted there in case of a robbery attempt? He didn’t think so. But he wasn’t going to shoot until he knew for sure.

  He saw the brakeman coming up the side of the coaches and Smoke called to him softly just as he dropped to the shoulder. “My name’s Jensen, brakeman. Smoke Jensen. There are armed men on the water tower.”

  The man’s head jerked up. “They damn sure ain’t railroad men, Smoke. And we’re carryin’ a lot of gold and cash money.”

  “That’s all I need to know,” Smoke said. He leveled a .44 and knocked a leg out from under one gunman crouching on the water tower. The man fell, screaming, to the rocky ground.

  Another gunman, hidden in the rocks alongside the tracks, opened fire, the slugs howling off the sides of the cars.

  Smoke yelled, “Get these pilgrims down on the floor, Sally.” To the brakeman, who had hauled out a pistol and was trying to find a target, he called, “How far to the next water stop?”

  “Too far,” the man said. “We got to water and fuel here or we don’t make it.”

  “We’ll make it,” Smoke told him, pulling out his second .44 and jacking back the hammer.

  One outlaw tried to run from the darkness to the locomotive. Either the engineer or the fireman shot him dead.

  “How far is this payroll going?” Smoke asked, crouching down.

  “All the way to the end of the line, up in Montana.”

  He knew the end of the line, at that time, was near Gold Creek. They would change trains before then. Smoke plugged a running outlaw and knocked him sprawling; but it wasn’t a killing shot. The man jumped up and limped off. “Why in the hell doesn’t the railroad put guards on these payroll shipments?”

  “Beats me, Smoke. But I’m damn sure glad you decided to ride my train for this trip.”

  The pounding of horses’hooves punctuated the night. The outlaws had decided to give it up.

  “Let’s see what we got,” Smoke said, shoving out empties and reloading as he walked over to the man he’d knocked off the water tower.

  The man was dead. He’d landed on his head and broken his neck. He walked over to the man the engineer had shot. He was also dead. The third man Smoke had dropped was gut-shot and in bad shape, the slug blowing out his left side, taking part of the kidney with it. He looked up at Smoke.

  “You played hell, mister. What’s your name? I’d like to know who done me in.”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  The man cussed. “Val sure picked the wrong train this time.”

  “Val Singer?” Smoke asked.

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “I know him. Me and him . . .” Smoke broke it off as he looked down at the man. He was dead, his eyes wide open, staring at the cloudy sky. He looked over at the brakeman. “I winged another. Let’s see if we can find him.”

  But he was gone. Smoke tracked a blood trail to where the outlaws had tied their horses. “He made the saddle. But as bad as he’s bleeding, he won’t last long. I must have hit the big vein in his leg.”

  The fireman walked up, his face all dark with soot. “Lem, you wanna toss them bodies in the baggage car and keep on haulin’?”

  “I ain’t having that crud in with me,” the guard to the gold shipment said, walking up. He had not taken part in the fight because in case of an attempted robbery, he was under orders not to open the doors to anyone. “Toss ’em in with the wood and tote ’em that way.”

  Smoke shrugged his shoulders and helped wrap the men in blankets and carry them to the wood car. Back in his seat, Sally asked, “You suppose we’ll have any more trouble?”

  Smoke pulled his hat brim down over his eyes and settled down for a nap. “Not from that bunch,” he said.

  They changed trains in southern Idaho, staying with the Union Pacific line. This run would head straight north. End of track would put them about a hundred and fifty miles south of their destination.

  The news had spread up and down the line that Smoke Jensen was on the train, and crowds gathered at every stop, hoping to get a glimpse of the West’s most famous gunfighter. Smoke stayed in the car while the train was in station. He had never sought publicity and didn’t want it now.

  No more attempts were made to rob the train during the long pull north.

  At end of track, Smoke off-loaded their horses while Sally changed from dress to jeans.

  Packhorse loaded, they rode into the small town and purchased a side of bacon and some bread, a gaggle of kids and dogs right at their heels all the way.

  “Right pleased to have you in town,” the shopkeeper told them. “Sorry you can’t stay longer. Things liven up quite a bit when you’re around, I’d guess, Mr. Jensen. Be good for business.”

  “It usually is for the undertaker,” Smoke told him, and that shut him up.

  Smoke signed his name to a half-dozen penny dreadfuls, then he and Sally hit the trail, pointing their horses’ noses north.

  A young would-be tough, two guns tied down low, stepped out of the saloon and watched the Jensens ride out of town. He pulled his hat brim low, hitched at his guns, and said, “Huh! He don’t look so tough to me. It’s a good thing he didn’t get in my way. I’d a called him out and left him in the street.”

  The town marshal looked at the kid, disgust in his eyes, then shoved the punk into a horse trough, guns and all, and walked away, leaving the big-mouth sputtering and cussing.

  Smoke and Sally made their first camp alongside a fast-running and very clear and cold little creek. It didn’t take either one of them very long to bathe. They knew it was time to exit the creek when they began turning blue.

  They were up before dawn. After bacon and bread and coffee, Sally strapped on her short-barreled .44, and then they were in the saddle and heading north.

  They were both ready for a hot bath and food they didn’t have to cook over a campfire when they topped a ridge and looked down on a little town just south of Flathead Lake.

  “Well,” Sally said, straightening her back. “It has a hotel.”

  “Yeah,” Smoke said with a grin. “And I’ll bet they change the sheets at least once a month.”

  She smiled sweetly at him. “I’ll bet they change them for me.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am!” the desk clerk said, paling slightly as he checked the names on the register. “The feather ticks was just aired out and we’ll get fresh linen on your bed pronto. You bet we will, Mrs. Jensen.”

  “And make sure the facilities are clean,” Sally told him.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I sure will.”

  The room was clean and it faced the street. Smoke laid out clean clothes and shook out and hung up one of Sally’s dresses while she bathed. He looked out the window and was not surprised to see a crowd gathering on the boardwalks below their room. Neither was he surprised to see the sheriff and two deputies among the gawking people. The desk clerk had not been slow in running his mouth.

  He bathed and shaved while Sally got herself all fixed up, then dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and string tie. He strapped on his .44’s and they went down to the dining room for an early supper.

  Smoke got a shot of whiskey from the bar for hims
elf and a glass of wine for Sally, then rejoined his wife in the dining room. The sheriff approached them.

  “Mind if I join you for a moment?” the lawman asked respectfully, his hat in his hand.

  Smoke pushed out a chair with one boot.

  “Coffee, Marie,” the sheriff ordered.

  “Nice little town, Sheriff,” Sally said, taking a sip of wine.

  “Thank you, ma’am. And it’s peaceful, too.”

  Smoke knew his cue when he heard it. “It’ll stay peaceful, too, Sheriff. We’re here to rest for the night and then we’ll be moving on.”

  “Nothin’ is peaceful around you for very long, Jensen,” the sheriff said. “You attract trouble like honey does flies.”

  “We don’t have any trouble in the town near where I live,” Smoke rebutted. “Hasn’t been a shot fired in anger in a long, long time.”

  “How do you manage that?”

  “We get rid of the troublemakers, Sheriff. It’s really very simple.”

  “You run them out of town, eh?”

  “We usually bury them,” Sally said.

  The sheriff cut his eyes to her. Strong-willed woman, he reckoned. Man would be hard-pressed to hold the reins on this one, he figured.

  He’d of course seen them riding into town, her astride that mare and packing a pistol. Way she carried it, the sheriff figured she knew how to use it. And, more importantly, would use it.

  “There’s some pretty randy ol’ boys in this town, Smoke. Some of them would like to make a reputation. I thought I’d warn you.”

  “The only way they’re going to get to me, Sheriff, is if they come into the lobby of this hotel and call me out while I’m reading the newspaper, come in here while I’m eating and call me out, or try to backshoot me when I’m pulling out in the morning.”

  “And if they call you out? . . .”

  “Then I guess the local undertaker is going to get some business, Sheriff.”

  “The one that’ll more than likely try to crowd you is called Chub. He’s a bad one, I’ll give him that. He’s killed a couple of men and wounded a couple more in face-downs. He’s quick, Jensen.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff drank his coffee and eyeballed Smoke. Wrists as big as some men’s forearms. And his upper arms; Lord have mercy! The man had muscle on top of muscle. The sheriff had heard of Smoke Jensen for years, but this was the first time he’d ever seen him. And as far as the sheriff was concerned, it was a sight that he’d not soon forget.

  The sheriff pushed back his chair and stood up. “See you, Jensen. Ma’am.”

  “See you around, Sheriff,” Smoke told him just as the waitress put their dinner in front of them.

  “Smells good,” Smoke said.

  “Then you’d better enjoy it, mister,” a small boy said, walking up to the table. “’Cause Chub Morgan told me to tell you he was gonna kill you just as soon as you got done eatin’.”

  3

  Smoke looked at the boy. “You go tell Chub I said to calm down. When I finish eating and have my brandy, I’ll step outside to smoke my cigar on the boardwalk. I get testy when people interrupt my dinner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Smoke gave the boy a coin. “Now get off the streets, boy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But Smoke knew he wouldn’t. The boy would gather up all his friends and they’d find them a spot to watch. A shooting wasn’t nearly the social event a good hanging was, but it would do. Things just got boring in small western towns. Folks had been known to pack lunches and dinners and drive or ride a hundred miles for a good hanging. And a double hanging was even better.

  “Who is Chub Morgan, honey?” Sally asked.

  “I have no idea, Sally. But I’ll tell you what he’s going to be as soon as I finish my food.”

  She looked at him. “What?”

  “Dead.”

  Smoke had his coffee and a glass of brandy, then bought a cigar and stepped outside. Sally took a seat in the lobby and read the local paper.

  It was near dusk and the wide street was deserted. All horses had been taken from the hitchrails and dogs had been called home. Smoke lit his cigar and leaned against an awning support.

  He had played out this scene many times in his life. and Smoke knew he was not immortal. He’d taken a lot of lead in his life. And he would rather talk his way out of a gunfight than drag iron. But he was realist enough to have learned early that with some men, talking was useless. It just prolonged the inevitable. Smoke also knew—and had argued the belief many times with so-called learned people—that some men were just born bad, with a seed of evil in them.

  And there was only one way to deal with those types of people.

  Kill them.

  Smoke puffed on his cigar and waited.

  A cowboy rode into town and reined up at the saloon. He dismounted, looked around him, and spotted Smoke Jensen, all dressed in a black suit with the coat brushed back, exposing those deadly .44’s.

  The cowboy put it all together in a hurry and swung back into the saddle, riding down to the stable. He wanted his horse to be out of the line of fire.

  After stabling his horse, the cowboy ran up the alley to the rear of the saloon and slipped inside. Everybody in the place, including the barkeep, was lined up by the windows.

  “What’s goin’ on?” the cowboy called.

  “Chub Morgan’s made his brags about killin’ Smoke Jensen for years. He’s about to get his chance. That there’s Smoke Jensen over yonder in the black suit.”

  The cowboy pulled his own beer and walked to the window. “You don’t say? Damn, but he’s a big one, ain’t he? What’s he doin’ in this hick town?”

  “Him and his wife rode in a couple hours ago. She’s a pretty little thing. Right elegant once she got out of them men’s britches and put on a proper dress. Packs a .44 like she knows how to use it.”

  “Jensen doesn’t seem too worried about facin’Chub,” the cowboy remarked.

  “Jensen’s faced hundreds of men in his time,” an old rummy said. “He’s probably thinkin’ more about what he’s gonna have for breakfast in the mornin’ than worried about a two-bit punk like Chub.”

  “Chub’s quick,” the cowboy said. “You got to give him that. But he’s a fool to face Jensen.”

  “Yonder’s Chub,” the barkeep said.

  Smoke, still leaning against the post, cut his eyes as a man began the walk down the street. As the man drew nearer, Smoke straightened up. He held his cigar in his left hand, the thumb of his right hand hooked under his belt buckle.

  “He’s gonna use that left hand .44,” the cowboy said. “Folks say he’s wicked with either gun.”

  “Reckon where his wife is?”

  “Foster from the store said she was sitting in the lobby, readin’ the newspaper,” the barkeep said.

  “My, my,” the cowboy said. “Would you look at Chub. He’s done went home and changed into his fancy duds.”

  Smoke noticed the fancy clothes the punk was wearing. He’d blacked his boots and shined his spurs. Big rowels on them; looked like California spurs. His britches had been recently pressed. Chub’s shirt was a bright red; looked like satin. Had him a purple bandana tied around his neck. Even his hat was new, with a silver band.

  Smoke waited. He knew where Sally was sitting; he’d told her where to sit, with a solid wood second-floor support to her back to stop any stray bullet. Not that Smoke expected any stray bullets from Chub’s gun. He doubted that Chub would even clear leather. But one never really knew for sure.

  Smoke watched the man approach him and, for another of the countless times, wondered why a man would risk his life for the dubious reputation of a gunfighter.

  “Jensen!” Chub called.

  “Right here,” Smoke said calmly.

  “Your wife’s a real looker,” Chub said, a nasty edge to the words. “After I kill you, I’ll take her.”

  Smoke laughed at the man. Chub’s
face grew red at the laughter. He cursed Smoke.

  Smoke was suddenly tired of it. He wanted a good night’s sleep, lying next to Sally. He hadn’t ridden into town looking for trouble, and he resented trouble being pushed upon him. He was just damned tired of it.

  “Make your play, punk!” Smoke called.

  Chub’s hands hovered over his pearl-handled guns. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted.

  “I don’t draw on fools,” Smoke told him. “You called me out, Chub, remember? Now, if you don’t have the stomach for it, turn around and go on back home. I’d rather you did that. ”

  “Then you a coward!”

  Smoke waited, his eyes unblinking.

  “You a coward, damn you!” Chub hollered. “Draw, damnit, draw!”

  Smoke’s cold, unwavering eyes bored into the man’s gaze.

  “How’s it feel to be about to die?” Chub called, trying to steel himself for the draw.

  “I wouldn’t know, Chub,” Smoke’s voice was calm. “Why don’t you ask yourself that question?”

  The sheriff and his two deputies watched from the small office and jail.

  “Now!” Chub yelled, and his hands closed around the butts of his guns.

  Smoke drew, cocked, and fired with one fluid motion. A draw so fast that it was only a blur. Blink, and you missed it.

  The .44 slug took Chub in the center of the chest, knocking him off his boots and down to his knees in the dusty street. His hands were still on the butts of his guns. The guns were still in leather.

  “Good God!” the cowboy said. “I never even seen him draw.”

  The sheriff and his deputies stepped out of the office just as the boardwalks on both sides of the street filled with people.

  Smoke stepped off the porch and walked to the dying Chub. He held a cocked .44 in his right hand.

  Sally had risen from her seat to stand at the window, watching her man.

  Chub raised his head. Blood had gathered on his lips. His eyes were full of anguish. “I ... never even seen you draw,” he managed to gasp.