War of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Come on, Cart,” one of his men pulled at his sleeve.

  “I’ll be damned if I will!” Cart blustered. “I’m the sheriff of this county. And no two-bit gunslinger tells me what to do.”

  He took a swing at Smoke, who in turn grabbed him by the arm and tossed him off the boardwalk and into the street. Smoke jumped down just as Cart was grabbing for his gun. He kicked the .45 out of his hand and jerked the man to his boots.

  Then he proceeded to beat the hell out of him.

  Every time Cart would get up, Smoke would knock him down again. The editor of the paper had grabbed his brand-new, up-to-date camera and rushed out of his office in time to see Smoke knock Cart down for the second time. He quickly set up and began taking action shots.

  Cart was out of shape, and Smoke really didn’t want to inflict any permanent injuries on the man. He just wanted to leave a lasting impression as to who was running things in Barlow and the south end of the county.

  The editor, Henry Draper, got some great shots of Cart being busted in the mouth and landing in the dirt on his butt. Jim and Sal thought it very amusing. Cart’s deputies failed to see the humor in it. But they stayed out of it mainly because of Jim and Sal and the express guns they carried.

  Joe Walsh and several of his hands rode into town just as Smoke was knocking Cart down for about the seventh time. The rancher sat his saddle and watched, amusement on his face and in his eyes.

  The county sheriff staggered to his boots, lifted his fists, and Smoke decked him for the final count. Cart hit the dirt and didn’t move.

  Smoke washed his face and hands in a horse trough, picked up his hat, and settled it on his head. He looked up at Cart’s deputies and pointed to the sheriff. “Get that trash off the streets and out of this town. And don’t come back. You understand all that?”

  “Yes, sir,” they echoed.

  Smoke jerked a thumb. “Move!”

  The deputies grunted Cart across his saddle, tied him in place, and rode out.

  “You do have a way of making friends, Smoke,” Joe said, walking his horse over to the hitchrail and dismounting.

  “Let’s just say I leave lasting impressions,” Smoke smiled the reply, shaking the rancher’s hand.

  “What a headline this will make!” Henry said. The editor of the Barlow Bugle grabbed up all his photographic equipment and hustled back to his office to develop the pictures and write the story.

  “Stick around,” Smoke told Joe. “We’ll have some coffee in a minute.” He looked at Sal. “When did Cart get here?”

  “’Bout an hour ago. He was full of it, too. He had me and Jim plumb shakin’ in our boots.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Smoke said, noticing the wicked glint in the man’s eyes. “I can tell that you haven’t recovered yet.”

  “Right,” Jim said, grinning along with Sal. “They’re runnin’ scared, Smoke. All of them up at Hell’s Creek. Cart said that Big Max can’t get a freight company to haul goods up to them. He’s tryin’ to get goods pulled in from that new settlement to the west of him ... Kalispell; but the marshal over there told him to go take a dump in his hat. Or words similar to that.”

  Joe Walsh and his men laughed out loud, one of the hands saying, “Me and the rest of the boys talked it over, Smoke. When you need us, just give a holler. We’ll ride with you and you call the shots.”

  “I appreciate it. Max won’t stand still and get pushed around much longer. I expect some retaliation from Hell’s Creek at any moment. Unfortunately, I don’t have any idea in what form it might be.” He told them all what he’d been doing that day, riding and warning those in the south end of the county ... or as many as he could find.

  “A man who would harm a kid is scum,” Joe said. “I suggest we keep a rope handy.”

  A crowd had gathered around and they heatedly agreed.

  Smoke let them talk it out until they fell silent. “You watch your children, people. Tell them not to leave the town limits. Not for any reason. Always bear in mind that we’re dealing with scum. And these people have no morals, no values, no regard for human life. Adult or child. The farmers in this part of the county are breaking ground and planting. And they’re doing it with guns strapped on. I don’t want to see a man in this town walking around without a gunbelt on or a pistol stuck behind his belt. It’s entirely conceivable that Max and Malone may even try to tree this town. If they do that, we want to be ready. Any woman here who doesn’t know how to shoot, my wife will be conducting classes.” He smiled. “She doesn’t know that yet, but I’m sure she’ll be more than willing to teach a class.”

  “You better watch out, Tom,” a good-natured shout came out of the crowd. “Ella Mae learns to shoot, she’s liable to fill your butt full of birdshot the next time you come home tipsy.”

  Tom Johnson grinned out of his suddenly red face. Tom liked his evening whiskey at the saloon.

  “You’re a fine one to talk, Matthew,” the blacksmith yelled. “I ’member the time your woman tossed you out of the house with nothin’ but your long-handles on.”

  The crowd burst out laughing and went their way. It was good laughter, the kind of laughter from men and women who had decided to make a stand of it. To not be pushed around and taken advantage of by thugs like Big Max Huggins.

  “That laughter is good to hear,” Joe said. “These folks have been down for a long time. I’m glad to see them back on their feet and standing tall.” He paused to finish rolling his cigarette and light up. “And you’re responsible for straightening their backbone, Smoke.”

  Smoke had been curious about something, and he figured now was the time to ask it. “Why didn’t you do it, Joe?” he asked softly.

  “Wondered when you’d get around to asking that. It’s a fair question. Me and the wife left right after roundup three years ago. Took us a trip to see San Francisco. Spent all summer in California. Up and down the coast. The kids is all growed up and in college back east. We left right around the first day of May and didn’t come back until late September. Hell, Smoke, it was all over by then. Big Max had built Hell’s Creek, him and Red Malone was in cahoots around here, and Big Max’s outlaws had cut the heart right out of this town.”

  He dropped the cigarette butt into the street and toed it dead. “I spent the next year just protecting my herds and my land. Red tried his damndest to run me out. But I wouldn’t go. I lost...” He looked at one of his hands. “How many men, Chuck?”

  “Four, boss. Skinny Jim, Davis, Don Morris, and John.”

  “Four men,” Joe said quietly. “Good men who died for the brand. When Red finally got it through his head that I wasn’t gonna be run out—and I can’t prove it was Red doing it—he backed off and let me be.”

  “No way you can prove it was Red?”

  “No. Not a chance. And I tried. That’s on record at the territorial capitol. I raised some hell about it, and that, and with me and the boys fighting the night riders brought an end to it. They all wore hoods. Don’t all cowards wear hoods or masks? I never was able to get a look at any of them.” He smiled. “But I did recognize their horses. Unfortunately, that won’t cut it in court.” His eyes darted toward Sally as she stepped out of the hotel. “My wife is looking forward to you and your missus coming out. But I told her let’s get this situation with Red and Max taken care of first, then we’ll socialize.”

  “Yeah. My leaving town now, for any length of time, would not be wise. Hey! I got an idea. How about a community dance and box supper?”

  Sally walked up. “You took those thoughts right out of my head, honey. Hi, Joe.”

  “Ma’am,” the rancher touched the brim of his hat. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Smoke’s grin turned into a frown.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Sally asked.

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “It would mean too many people would be leaving their homes unguarded. That might be all it would take
for Max or Red to burn someone out.”

  “Oh, pooh!” Sally said, stamping her foot.

  “Smoke’s right. I didn’t think about that. Must be getting old. Max and Red wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. And we couldn’t keep it quiet. It’d be sure to leak out.”

  Smoke began smiling again.

  “Now what?” Sally asked.

  “I know how to have the dance and avoid trouble—at least for the farmers and ranchers.”

  “How?” Joe asked. “What about Red and Max?”

  “That’s just it. We’ll invite them.”

  10

  Joe Walsh rode back to the ranch, chuckling as he went. Smoke Jensen was not only the slickest gunhandler he’d ever seen, but the man was damn smart, too.

  There was no way a western man was going to turn down an invitation for a box supper and a dance with some really nice ladies. And both Max and Red would know that if anyone’s place was torched that night, the fires could be seen for miles and there was no way either of them would leave Barlow alive.

  “Slick,” the rancher said. “Just damn slick.”

  “I had my mind all made up to not like Smoke Jensen,” one of his hands said. “But I sure changed my mind. He’s a right nice fellow.”

  “Yes, he is, Curly. I had my mind all made up to dislike the man. I figured he’d be a cocky son. Shows how wrong a man can be.”

  “I can’t wait for this shindig,” another hand said. “Been a long time since we had a good box supper and dance.”

  “Be a damn good time to put lead in Max Huggins and Red Malone, too,” Curly said. Curly and Skinny Jim had been close friends.

  “Be none of that, Curly,” Joe cautioned his hand. “Not unless they open the ball. Too much a chance that women and kids would get hit.”

  “I hate both them men,” Curly replied. “With Jensen leadin’ the pack, we could ride into Hell’s Creek and wipe it out. I don’t see why we don’t do that.”

  “It might come to that, Curly,” Joe said. “For sure, a lot of blood is going to be spilled before this is over.”

  “Just as long as the blood spilled comes out of Max Huggins and Red Malone and them that ride for them,” Curly said. “I don’t wanna die, but I’ll go out happy if I know I got lead in Max or Malone.”

  Joe cut his eyes to the puncher. I’m going to have to watch him, the rancher thought. He’s let his hate bubble very nearly out of control.

  Sally and the ladies of Barlow met with the editor of the paper and designed and had printed dozens of invitations. Smoke made certain that Max Huggins and Red Malone received an invite.

  Max stared at his invitation for a long time, being careful not to smudge the creamy bond paper. “What’s Jensen doing this time?” he questioned the empty office. “He’s got to have something up his sleeve.” Then it came to him: If he attended this shindig and there was any trouble caused by his men, Max and Red would be gunned down on the spot; shot down like rabid skunks.

  The big man was filled with grudging admiration for Jensen. Slick. Very, very slick. If he and Red didn’t attend, Jensen and the others would be put on alert that something was going to happen out in the county, and it would be open season for any Lightning rider or gunhand from Hell’s Creek caught out after dark.

  He sent one of his bodyguards to fetch Val Singer, Warner Frigo, Dave Poe, and Alex Bell to his office.

  “Me and Red will be attending this shindig,” he informed the outlaw leaders. “And there better not be any trouble out in the county. You hold the reins tight on your boys ... and I mean tight.”

  “It might be a trap,” Val pointed out.

  Max shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. The people of Barlow are going to let off a little steam, that’s all.” He waved the invite. “This is their way of insuring that they can do so without fear of any trouble.” He eyeballed them all. “And, by God, there isn’t going to be any trouble. Those are my orders. See that they are carried out.”

  Red Malone had recovered from his beating at the hands—or fists—of Smoke Jensen. He stared hard and long at the invitation. He laid it on his desk and stared at it some more.

  Was it a trap? He didn’t think so. But he had a week to nose around and find out for sure.

  “We goin’, ain’t we, Daddy?” Tessie asked, looking and reading over his shoulder.

  Red turned his head and stared at his daughter, all blond and pretty and pouty and as worthless as her brother, Melvin. He loved them both—as much as Red Malone could love anything—but realized he had sired a whore and a nut.

  “I don’t know,” he told her.

  She pouted.

  “Stop that, girl. You look like a fish suckin’ in air.”

  Tessie plopped down in a chair and glared at him. “I got me a brand-new dress I got outta that catalog from New York, and I ain’t had no chance to wear it. Now I got a chance to wear it and you tell me we might not go.”

  Red sighed. “Where’s Melvin?”

  “Same place he always is: shootin’ at targets.”

  The boy was good with a gun, Red thought. Fast as a snake. But was he as fast as Jensen? Maybe. Just maybe the boy might do one thing in his life that was worthwhile: killing Smoke Jensen.

  “Come on, Daddy!” Tessie said. “Let’s go to the dance and have some fun.”

  Red stared at her, wondering whom she was bedding down with this time around.

  The girl had more beaus than a dog had fleas.

  “Pooh!” Tessie said. “I never get to do anything.”

  Except sneak out at night and behave like a trollop, Red thought. “I said I’d think about it,” he told her. “Now go tell the cook to get dinner on the table. I’m hungry.”

  She sat in her chair and pouted.

  “Move!” Red yelled.

  She got up and left the room, shaking her butt like a hurdy-gurdy girl.

  Red sighed and shook his big head. The only thing he regretted about his wife leaving him was that she didn’t take those damn kids with her.

  “Max has accepted,” Sally told Smoke, holding out the note from Hell’s Creek. “This came on the southbound stage a few minutes ago.”

  Smoke read the note and smiled. “One down and one to go. No word from Red yet?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Smoke!” Jim’s sharp call came from the outside. “Melvin Malone ridin’ in. You watch yourself around this one. He’s crazy as a skunk.”

  Smoke walked to the door and stepped out, after removing the hammer thongs from his .44’s. He’d heard too much about Melvin to be careless around him. He watched the young man swing down from the saddle, being careful to keep the horse between himself and Smoke.

  Smart, Smoke thought. He’s no amateur.

  Melvin stepped up on the boardwalk, studying Smoke as hard as Smoke was studying him. Melvin was about six feet tall and well built, heavily muscled. He was handsome in a cruel sort of way. He wore two guns, the holsters tied down. The spurs he wore were big roweled ones, the kind that would hurt a horse, and Melvin looked the type who would enjoy doing that.

  “Jensen,” the young man said, stopping a few feet away. “I’m Mel Malone.”

  “Nice to see you, Mel. What’s on your mind?”

  Killing you, was the thought in Mel’s head. He kept it silent. Big bastard, Mel thought. Big as them books made him out to be. “My pa said to give you a message. We’ll be coming to the dance and box supper.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Mel. Yes, sir. Sure am. You be sure and tell Red I’m looking forward to seeing him again. He is feeling all right, now, isn’t he?”

  The young man stared at Smoke for a moment. Was Jensen trying to be smart-mouthed? He couldn’t tell. “Uh, yeah. He feels just fine.”

  “That’s good. Your sister Tessie makes a pretty good box supper, does she?”

  “My sister couldn’t fry an egg if the hen told her how,” Mel replied. “But the cook can fry chicken that’ll make you wanna slap
your granny.” Why the hell was he standing here talking about fried chicken with a man he was going to kill? He stared hard at Smoke. Fella seemed sort of likable.

  Smoke chuckled. “Well, some women just never get the knack of cooking, Mel. Tell Red to take it easy now.” Smoke turned and walked across the street, leaving Melvin alone on the boardwalk.

  Feeling sort of stupid standing on the boardwalk all by himself, the young man wandered over to the saloon for a drink.

  Sally watched it all from the window and she smiled.

  “Smoke handled that just right,” Jim said. “There wasn’t nothing else to be said, so he just walked off leavin’ Melvin standing there lookin’ stupid. Which ain’t hard to do, ’cause he is.”

  “But good with a gun,” Sally remarked, watching the young man push open the batwings to the saloon. “I can tell by the way he carries himself. He walks a lot like Smoke.”

  “He’s almost as fast as Smoke, ma’am. But not quite as good. But he’s a dead shot, I’ll give him that.”

  Sally felt just a twinge of worry that she quickly pushed aside. She had known what Smoke was when she met and later married him. She had long ago accepted that wherever he went, there would be men who would call him out. The West was slowly changing, but it would be years before gunfighting was finally banned.

  When Melvin left town, Smoke was leaning up against an awning support watching him go. Smoke raised a hand in farewell. Melvin looked at him, then cut his eyes away, refusing to acknowledge the friendly gesture.

  Smoke walked back to the office. Sally had just finished cleaning and straightening it up. “What do you think of Red’s son, Smoke?”

  Smoke poured a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. He sipped and said, “He’s crazy and he’s cruel. I’ll have to kill him someday.”

  Little by little, in small groups, Red’s hands began drifting back into town for a drink or a meal or to buy this or that. So far, Red had not tried to buy any supplies from Marbly. The rancher was going to be in for a rude shock when he did.