“She’ll take every dollar from the safe, sell off the herds, and be gone in a month,” the judge prophesied. “And good riddance to bad baggage.”
Smoke looked around. Most of the bodies had been tossed in wagons and were being hauled off to be buried in a mass grave. Half the men in town were working with shovels at the gravesite.
“Wagons coming,” Jim announced, pointing to the north.
As the wagons neared, Judge Garrison said, “Saloon girls, gamblers, and assorted riffraff from Hell’s Creek. Rats leaving a sinking ship.”
“No,” Smoke said. “A burning one. Because that’s what we’re going to do in the morning.”
“Suits me,” Tom said. “I’ll ride with you.”
“Keep moving,” Sal told the lead wagon. “And don’t stop until you’re in the next county. And he won’t want you, either, ’cause I’m fixin’ to wire the sheriff and tell him about you scum.”
One of the ladies of the evening, sitting in the back of the wagon, gave him a very obscene gesture with a finger.
“I’ll jerk you out of that wagon and hand you over to the good ladies of this town,” Sal warned her. “And they’ll shave your head and tar and feather you.”
The shady lady tucked her finger away and stared straight ahead.
The wagons rumbled out of sight.
“Why wait until the morning?” Pete asked. “Hell, Smoke. Let’s ride up there and put that town out of its misery right now.”
Smoke was curious to see what had happened to Big Max. “All right. Let’s ride.”
The band of men had stopped at Brown’s farmhouse and asked if the farmers wanted any of the lumber in the town before they put the torch to it.
To a man, they shook their heads. “Thanks kindly, but no thanks,” Gatewood said. “We just want shut of that den of thieves and whores and hoodlums.”
The men rode on, Smoke, Pete, Tom Johnson, Judge Garrison, and half a dozen more of the town. They were heavily armed, for no one among them knew what awaited them in Hell’s Creek.
Desolation.
As they topped the ridge overlooking the town, they could all sense the place was empty, completely void of life.
“Let’s check it out,” Smoke said.
The men inspected every building. The town was deserted. Thre was no sign of Big Max Huggins. Smoke looked at the safe in Max’s quarters. The door was open and there was no sign of forced entry. So Max had found the strength to open it and ride.
Smoke found a coal-oil lantern, lit it, and tossed it into the squalor that someone had once lived in . . . and from all indications, it had housed several women. The building was quickly ablaze. The other men were doing the same with coal-oil-soaked rags. Soon, the fierceness of the heat drove them back.
In half an hour, the town of Hell’s Creek, Montana was no more than an unpleasant memory.
The men headed back toward Barlow, for a hot bath, a good meal, and some well-deserved rest. The day’s events would alter their lives forever. For the good.
All that was left for Sally and Smoke were the good-byes to the people of Barlow and the ranchers and farmers out in the county. In the short time they’d been there, a lot had happened and they had discovered some friendships that would last forever.
Robert had been transferred to the territorial mental asylum and the doctors there had given him very little hope of ever recovering.
Through Sally’s help, the new bank had agreed to loan Martha and Pete the money for a down payment on the Lightning spread. The two were married the day before Smoke and Sally were due to pull out.
Tessie Malone left the country the very day she sold Lightning to Pete and Martha.
Much to Sal’s embarrassment, Victoria announced that the newly elected sheriff had proposed marriage to her and that she had accepted. Victoria had also accepted a position of teaching at the new school.
The other new schoolteacher in town, a cute little redhead, was making goo-goo eyes at Jim Dagonne. Bets were that he’d be roped and hog-tied before summer’s end.
Smoke and Sally had said their good-byes to Joe Walsh and his wife.
The town of Barlow had been quiet for a week. Not one shot had been fired, not one fist had been swung in anger. Sal commented that it was just too good to last.
That proved true when one of Joe Walsh’s hands came fogging into town, pale as a ghost and so excited he could hardly talk. He’d found Smoke Jensen’s body on the trail. Sally Jensen was missing.
27
Smoke was not dead, but had the bullet that grazed his skull been one millimeter more to the right, the slug would have blown out his brains.
He was back on his feet the next day, over the protestations of the new doctor in Barlow, and strapping on his guns.
Every able-bodied man in Barlow had been on the search for Sally and her kidnapper or kidnappers. They had ridden back into town at dawn, weary. They had lost the trail.
All Smoke could remember was that he and Sally and the packhorse had ridden down the edge of Swan Lake, intending to pick up the Swan River and follow it south to the railroad. They had stopped to water and rest their horses when Smoke’s head seemed to explode.
That’s all he could remember.
He swung into the saddle and pointed Star’s head south, intending to backtrack. He had a headache, but other than that, he felt fine.
“You’re sure you don’t want some help?” Sal asked.
“No. A big posse is too easy to spot. Besides, Sally will leave messages along the way; messages and markers that would make sense only to me. It’s Big Max, I’d bet on that. I was instrumental in bringing down his little empire, so now he intends to destroy as much of what I hold dear as possible. See you, Sal.”
Smoke rode easy, down to the south end of the lake. There he dismounted and began searching the area, using tactics taught him by the old mountain man, Preacher. He worked in ever-widening circles, on moccasin-clad feet. By mid-afternoon he had picked up the trail—the true one, not the one that had been deliberately left for the posse.
The trail headed north by northeast. The lead horse was carrying a heavy load. That would be Max Huggins. Smoke recognized the hoofprints of Sally’s mare. If they stayed on this trail, Smoke surmised, they were heading for glacier country.
Smoke doggedly stayed with the trail, taking his time, being careful not to miss a thing. He found where they’d camped at the base of and on the east side of Mt. Evans. Sally had left three stones in the form of an arrowhead, pointing toward the Flathead River.
Smoke followed, his head no longer aching and his strength having returned. He kept his fury under control—barely. He met a lone hunter, and the man took one look into Smoke’s eyes’ and felt the chill of death touch him. The hunter backed off the trail and let Smoke pass with just a nod of his head.
The man would tell his grandkids that he had once seen Smoke Jensen on the prod, and that it was not a sight he ever wanted to see again.
On the east side of the South Fork Flathead, Max had met up with the tracks of a dozen riders. Probably the remnants of Max’s gang, Smoke thought. Several miles farther, one rider had left the bunch. Smoke left the trail and circled. He picketed Star and worked his way back a bit on foot. He smiled when he saw who had stayed behind to waylay him.
It was the young man who had taken to calling himself Kid Brewer; the young man with a few pimples on his face who had made the obscene gesture at Smoke after the window-washing incident.
“Waiting for me, Kid?” Smoke called from behind the young man.
Kid Brewer whirled, his hands frozen over the butts of his tied-down guns. Smoke Jensen stood facing him, a Winchester pointed at his belly.
“You really shouldn’t have taken a part in the taking of my wife, punk,” Smoke told him. “Coming at me is one thing; taking my wife is something entirely different.”
“Yeah,” the young gunhand sneered at him. “So what do you think you’re going to do about it?”
Smoke walked down to him and placed the muzzle of the rifle on the gunhand’s left elbow. “If you think I won’t leave you permanently crippled in both arms, you’re crazy. Talk to me, punk.”
Brewer looked up into the coldest eyes he had ever seen in all his young life. They so chilled him he momentarily forgot the pain in his shattered right arm. He began talking so fast Smoke had to slow him down.
When he had finished, Smoke smashed Brewer’s guns, threw him on his saddle, and when the young man had stopped screaming after the jolting pain in his arm from the toss had lessened, Smoke gave him some advice. “If I ever see you again and you’re wearing a gun, I’ll kill you.” He slapped the horse on the rump and the pony took off at a fast canter. Brewer was still screaming when Smoke mounted up.
Smoke backtracked and once more picked up the trail. He found where they had nooned and discovered Sally had taken stones and spelled out: O K. With a smile that would have backed up the devil, Smoke swung into the saddle and rode on.
He left the obvious trail and rode up into the high lonesome, into the east slopes of the Rockies. He dismounted and took his binoculars, carefully scanning the area below him. He scanned it once, then twice, and then a third time. He picked up the thin tentacle of smoke on the third try. He studied the area below him until he felt he had found a way in. He mounted up and headed down into the valley.
Nelson Barrett was enjoying a cup of hot coffee. His pleasure abruptly lessened when he felt the cold steel of a big Bowie knife against his throat. What made it even worse was the dark stain that suddenly appeared in the crotch of his dirty jeans.
“Talk to me, pee-pants,” Smoke whispered. “And I’d better like what you have to say. ’Cause if I don’t, I’ll stake you out and skin you alive.”
“Your woman’s awright!” Nelson blurted. “There ain’t nobody touched her. I swear it, man!”
“You were left here to do what?”
“Kill you!”
“Well, now. Is that a fact? What do you think I ought to do with you?”
“You let me ride, you’ll never see me again, Smoke. As God is my witness, I promise you that.”
Smoke took the knife from the man’s throat and Nelson made a grab for his gun. Smoke jammed the big blade into the man’s back and ripped upward with it. Nelson Barrett fell face-first into the small fire.
Smoke wiped the blade clean on Nelson’s shirttail and poured himself a cup of coffee. He drank it slowly, then carefully put out the fire. He left Nelson where he lay and mounted up.
He crossed the Middle Fork of the Flathead River and rode into the area that would someday become the Glacier National Park. Smoke slipped into a jacket, for it had turned cold.
He plunged into a wild, beautiful wilderness. His thoughts turned to Preacher and how much the old man would have enjoyed the beauty of this rugged, lonesome country.
Then his thoughts lost all trace of beauty and turned savage and ugly as he followed the trail of Max Huggins and his dwindling gang of thugs and punks and human crap. He thought he heard a voice from out of the dark tangle of vegetation and pulled up, dismounting. He picketed Star and moved forward, both guns in his hands.
Al Martin, Dave Poe, and Ben Webster squatted around a campfire, boiling coffee and frying bacon.
“I cain’t understand why Big Max don’t go ahead and take the woman,” Al said. “I would have.”
“’Cause he’d have to knock her out cold to do it,” Ben replied. “And that ain’t no fun.”
“He ought to just go ’head and shoot her,” Dave opined. “She ain’t never gonna be what Max wants her to be.”
“I say we go on and kill Jensen, if that is him behind us, then kill Max, take his money, and have our pleasures with the woman,” Al said. “There ain’t nobody ever gonna find her body in this place.”
Smoke stepped out and ruined the men’s appetites. Both .44’s belched flame and death, destroying the tranquility of the lovely forest in the high-up country.
Smoke dragged their bodies away from the fire and dumped them down a ravine. He pulled the picket pins of their horses and set them free. Smoke got Star and unsaddled him, rubbing the animal down and allowing him to graze for a time.
By that time, the bacon was done and the coffee was ready. Smoke drank and ate, sopping out the grease in the frying pan with a hunk of stale bread.
Smoke rolled him a cigarette and leaned back, enjoying the warmth of the fire. He poured another cup of coffee. If his calculations were corret, all that remained were Max, Val Singer, and Alex Bell. He moved away from the fire, laid his head on his saddle, and went to sleep.
He slept for a couple of hours, then rose and began circling the camp. He found another stick message from Sally. Three sticks laid out side by side, with four sticks next to them, in the shape of a crude D. Triple Divide Peak. Had to be.
Ol’ Preacher had told him about this country, as had other old mountain men, and like most outdoorsmen, Smoke retained that knowledge in his head, a mental map.
He saddled up and took a chance, cutting straight east for a time, then turning north just west of what he felt was the Continental Divide. If he was right, and Max and what was left of his gang were not too far ahead of him—and he didn’t think they were—he would make Triple Divide Peak ahead of Max.
Smoke pushed Star that day, but it was nothing the big horse couldn’t take and still have more to give. Man and horse traveled through country that seemed as unchanged now as it was when God created the earth.
And Smoke could not understand why Max, with his love of cities and towns, hurdy-gurdy girls and parties, had chosen to come here, into this cold and vast wilderness.
He concluded that Max, like his brother Robert, had a streak of insanity running through him.
Smoke made camp that evening between Mt. Thompson and Triple Divide Peak. He loved this country, this high lonesome, where bighorn sheep played their perilous games on the face of seemingly untraversable mountains. Where cedars grew so tall they seemed to touch the sky. Where far below where he camped, heating his coffee over a hat-sized fire, he could see herds of buffalo roaming.
It all seemed just too peaceful a place for what Smoke had in mind.
But peaceful or not, he had come to find Sally, and get Sally he would. He rolled up in his blankets and went to sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a very busy day.
Smoke was up before dawn. He did not build a fire. He watered Star and left the big horse to graze. Below him, by one of the many small lakes that were scattered like jewels in this wilderness, he had spotted a campfire. Leaving his boots and spurs behind, Smoke slipped into his moccasins and picked up his rifle. He had it in his mind that he and Sally would be riding toward the Sugarloaf come noon.
Smoke moved through the thick underbrush and damp grass like a wraith. His clothing was of earth tones, blending in with his surroundings. From his high-up vantage point, Smoke had seen the second fire. That would be where Max and Sally were camped. Max had chosen to make his stand—if that’s what he had in mind—on the flat of a sheer drop-off, maybe a thousand feet above where his two remaining gunmen were camped, waiting for Smoke Jensen.
“Let us not disappoint you, gentlemen,” Smoke muttered. “I do hate to keep people waiting.”
“No word from any of them we left behind,” Val Singer said to Alex Bell. “That means that Jensen got them.”
Bell said nothing for a moment. He sipped his coffee, warming his hands on the tin cup. He was cold, he was uncomfortable, and he was scared. All along the way up into this godforsaken country, they had left good men behind them; men left there to take care of Smoke Jensen. But Jensen had taken care of them, it seemed. The man was a devil. Straight out of hell. Had to be.
“Let’s get out of here, Val,” he
finally spoke. “To hell with Max and the woman. Let’s just ride.”
“It’s too late,” Val said, the words soft.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Jensen’s here.”
Alex looked wildly around him. He could see nothing, only the seemingly impenetrable tangle of brush that was all around them. “I don’t see nothin’. I don’t hear nothin’.”
“No,” the gunfighter said, standing up and working his guns in and out of leather. “You wouldn’t with Jensen. But he’s here.”
Alex stood up, loosening his guns. “You’re beginning to spook me, Val.”
“We shoulda left when Jensen showed up. We shoulda just pulled out and got gone. Now it’s too late.”
“That’s right, Val,” the voice came from the underbrush. “Now it’s too late.”
Alex Bell jerked iron and emptied one gun into the thick brush.
Laughter was his reply.
“Come out here and fight, damn you!” Alex screamed.
A .44 slug from a Winchester doubled him over, the slug taking him just above the belt buckle. The second slug turned him around and dropped him to the cold ground. His gun fell from numbed fingers.
Val Singer had not moved. He stood tall, his right hand close to the butt of his Colt. He waited.
Alex Bell moaned on the ground. Val ignored him.
Smoke stepped out of the brush. He carried the rifle in his left hand, his right hand by his side.
Val said, “I guess we do it now, don’t we, Smoke?”
“I reckon.”
“No point in my sayin’ I’d just ride on out and leave you be?”
“Nope.”
“You’re a hard man, Smoke.”
“Yep.”
Val cussed him.
Smoke waited, tall and tough and cold-eyed.
Val jerked iron and Smoke shot him twice in the belly, once with his Colt and once with the 44 rifle. Smoke walked to the fire and poured a cup of coffee. He made a sandwich out of the nearly burned bacon and some bread wrapped in a cloth. He cut his eyes to Val Singer.
War of the Mountain Man Page 24
