Revenge of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  And in the midst of it all, churches were flourishing. If not spiritually, then financially. One member suggested that he buy a chandelier for the church. Another member asked, “Why? None of us knows how to play it!”

  Smoke and York turned their horses onto State Street, where several famous New York chefs operated fancy eating places. Oxtail soup cost five cents a bowl at Smoothey’s, and it was famous from the Coast to the Rockies.

  Smoke waved at a ragged newsboy and bought a local newspaper, The Chronicle. They rode on and found a stable that had stalls to spare.

  “We’ll sleep with our horses,” Smoke told the livery man.

  “That’ll be a dollar extra, boys. Apiece.”

  York started to protest, then noted the look on Smoke’s face and held his peace.

  “Give them a bait of corn and all the hay they can handle,” Smoke told the man. “And do it now. If you go into Drifter’s stall after I’m gone, he’ll kill you.”

  “Son of a bitch tries to stomp on me,” the livery blustered, “I’ll take a rifle to him.”

  “Then I’ll kill you,” Smoke said softly, but with steel in his voice.

  The man looked into those cold, hard eyes. He swallowed hard. “I was jokin’, mister.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  The liveryman gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Yes, sir. I’ll take the best of care of your horses. Whatever you say mister . . . ah? . . .”

  Smoke smiled and thought, To hell with trying to disguise who we are. “Smoke Jensen.”

  The liveryman backed up against a stall. “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen, I mean, whatever you say, sir.”

  Smoke patted the man on the shoulder. “We’ll get along fine, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, sir. You can bet I’ll do my damndest!”

  Smoke and York stepped out into the hustle and confusion of the boom town. Both knew that within the hour, every resident of the town would know that Smoke Jensen had arrived.

  They stepped into a general store, checked the prices of goods, and decided they’d resupply further on.

  “Legal stealin’,” York said, looking at the price of a pair of jeans. He put the jeans back on the table.

  They walked back outside.

  “We can cover more ground if we split up,” the Arizona Ranger suggested. “I’ll take the other side of the street. What say we meet back at the stable in a couple of hours?”

  “Sounds good to me. Watch your back, York.”

  “I hear you.” York checked the busy street, found his chance, and darted across. As it was, he almost got run over by a freighter. The freighter cursed him, and rumbled and rattled on.

  Smoke walked on. There was something about the tall man with the two guns, in cross-draw style, that made most men hurry to step out of his way. If someone had told Smoke that he looked menacing, he would not have believed it. He could never see the savage look that was locked into his eyes.

  Smoke turned a corner and found himself on Harrison Avenue, a busy business thoroughfare. He strolled the avenue, left it, and turned several corners, cutting down to hit State and Main.

  Then he saw Natick, stepping out of a brothel. Smoke stopped and half turned, blending in better with the crowd. He backed against a building and began reading the paper he’d bought, still keeping a good eye on Natick. He hoped the outlaw might lead him to Davidson and Dagget.

  But Natick stepped out into the street and walked toward a saloon. Smoke turned away and walked in the opposite direction, not wanting to stare too long at the man, knowing how that can attract someone’s attention.

  Smoke lounged around a bit, buying a cup of coffee and a sandwich at prices that would make a Scotsman squall in outrage. The coffee was weak and the sandwich uneatable. Smoke gave both to a ragged man who seemed down on his luck, and then he waited.

  Soon he saw York walking up the street and turning into the saloon. Smoke hurriedly crossed the street and stepped into the crowded saloon, elbowing and shouldering his way through the crowd. Several turned to protest, looked into the unforgiving eyes of the tall stranger with the two six-guns, and closed their months much faster than they opened them.

  York was facing Natick and two other hard-looking men that Smoke did not know and did not remember seeing in Dead River.

  And the crowd was rapidly moving back and away, out of the line of fire.

  It was almost a repeat performance of Nappy and his crew. Except that this time a photographer was there and had his equipment set up, and he was ready to start popping whenever the action began.

  The town marshal, a notorious bully and killer, was leaning up against the bar watching it all, a faint smile on his face. He was not going to interfere on behalf of either side.

  “Mort!” Smoke called.

  The marshal turned and faced Smoke, and his face went a shade paler.

  “Jensen,” he whispered.

  “Either choose a side or get out,” Smoke warned him, clear menace in his voice.

  It was a warning and a challenge that rankled the town marshal, but not one he wanted to pick up. Quick with his guns and his fists, boasting that he had killed seven men, Mort’s reputation was merely a dark smudge on the ground when compared to Smoke’s giant shadow.

  The marshal nodded and walked outside, turning and going swiftly up the street.

  “All right, boys,” York said. “You all know Smoke Jensen. Make your play.”

  The three outlaws drew together. One did not even clear leather before Smoke’s guns belched fire and smoke, the slug striking the outlaw in the center of the chest. The second outlaw that Smoke faced managed to get the muzzle free of leather before twin death-blows of lead hammered at his belly and chest.

  York’s guns had roared and bucked and slammed Natick against a rear wall of the saloon, down but not quite dead.

  Smoke walked to him. “Natick?”

  “What do you want, Jensen?” the outlaw gasped.

  “I know why you broke with Davidson and the others.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “Because you may be a lot of bad things, but you’re no baby killer.”

  Natick nodded his bloody head. “Yeah. I couldn’t go along with that. I’m glad it was you boys who done me in. Pull my boots off for me, Jensen?”

  Smoke tugged off the man’s boots. One big toe was sticking through a hole in his sock.

  “Ain’t that pitiful?” Natick observed. “I’ve stole thousands and thousands of dollars and cain’t even afford to buy a pair of socks.” He cut his eyes to Smoke. “Rex and Dagget’s got some bad ones with them, Jensen. Lapeer, Moore, The Hog, Tustin, Shorty, Red, and Jake. Studs Woodenhouse, Tie Medley, Paul Rycroft, Slim Bothwell, and Brute Pitman. I don’t know where they’re hidin’, Jensen, and that’s the truth. But Davidson plans on rapin’ your woman and then killin’ your kid.”

  Natick was whispering low, so only Smoke and York could hear his dying words. The photographer was taking pictures as fast as he could jerk plates and load his dust.

  Smoke bent his head to hear Natick’s words, but the outlaw would speak no more. He was dead.

  Smoke dug in his own pocket and handed some money to a man standing close by. “You’ll see that he gets a proper burial?”

  “I shore will, Mr. Jensen. And it was a plumb honor to see you in action.”

  The photographer fired again.

  The batwings snapped open and a dirty man charged into the bar, holding twin leather bags. “She’s pure, boys. Assayed out high as a cat’s back. The drinks is on me! Git them damn stiffs outta the way!”

  17

  John and his sons and daughters and their families looked at the pictures John had sent in from New York, looked at them in horror.

  Bodies were sprawling in the street, on the boardwalks, hanging half in and half out of broken windows. One was facedown in a horse trough, another was sprawled in stiffened death beside the watering trough.

  And John’s son-in-law, Smoke Jensen, handso
me devil that he was, was standing on the boardwalk, calmly rolling a cigarette.

  “That’s my Smoke!” Sally said, pointing.

  Smoke was wearing his guns cross-draw, and he had another one tucked behind his gunbelt. In another picture, the long-bladed Bowie knife he carried behind one gun could be clearly seen. In still another picture, Smoke was sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, eating an apple. In the left side of the picture, bodies could be seen hanging from the gallows.

  John’s stomach felt queasy. He laid the pictures aside and stifled a burp when Sally grabbed them up and began glancing at them.

  “There’s a bandage on Smoke’s head,” she noted. “But I can’t see that he was shot anywhere else.”

  “Who is that handsome man standing beside him?” Walter’s sister-in-law asked. “He’s so . . . rugged-looking!”

  “Lord, Martha!” her sister exclaimed. “He’s savage-looking!”

  “He’s some sort of law enforcement officer,” Walter explained, examining the picture. But his badge is somewhat different from . . . ah . . . Smoke’s. Excuse my hesitation, Sister, but I never heard of a man being called Smoke.”

  “Get used to it, Walt,” Sally said, a testy note to her statement. After being in the West, with its mostly honest and open and non-pompous people, the East was beginning to grate on her more and more.

  Her father picked up on her testiness. “Sally, dearest, it’ll soon be 1882. No one carries a gun around here except the law officers, and many times they don’t even carry a gun, only a club. There hasn’t been an Indian attack in this area in anyone’s memory! We are a quiet community, with plans underway to have a college here; a branch of the state university. We are a community of laws, darling. We don’t have gunfights in the streets. Keene was settled almost a hundred and fifty years ago. . . .”

  “Yes, Father,” Sally said impatiently. “I know. 1736, as a matter of fact. It’s a nice, quiet, stable, pleasant little community. But I’ve grown away from it. Father, Mother, all of you . . . have you ever stood on the Great Divide? Have you ever ridden up in the High Lonesome, where you knew you could look for a hundred miles and there would be no other human being? Have any of you ever watched eagles soar and play in the skies, and knew yours were the only eyes on them? No, no you haven’t. None of you. You don’t even have a loaded gun in this house. None of you women would know what to do if you were attacked. You haven’t any idea how to fire a gun. All you ladies know how to do is sit around looking pretty and attend your goddamn teas!”

  John wore a pained expression on his face. Abigail started fanning herself furiously. Sally’s brothers wore frowns on their faces. Her sisters and sisters-in-law looked shocked.

  Martha laughed out loud. “I have my teacher’s certificate, Sally. Do you suppose there might be a position for me out where you live?”

  “Martha!” her older sister hissed. “You can’t be serious. There are . . . savages out there!”

  “Oh . . . piddly-poo!” Martha said. She would have liked to have the nerve to say something stronger, like Sally, but didn’t want to be marked as a scarlet woman in this circle.

  “We’re looking for a schoolteacher right this moment, Martha,” Sally told her. “And I think you’d be perfect. When Smoke gets here, we’ll ask him. If he says you’re the choice, then you can start packing.”

  Martha began clapping her hands in excitement.

  “Smoke is a one-man committee on the hiring of teachers?” Jordan sniffed disdainfully.

  “Would you want to buck him on anything, Brother?”

  Jordan stroked his beard and remained silent. Unusually so for a lawyer.

  * * *

  Smoke and York left Leadville the next morning, riding out just at dawn. They rode north, past Fremont Pass, then cut east toward Breckenridge. No sign of Davidson or Dagget or any of the others with them. They rode on, with Bald Mountain to the south of them, following old trails. They kept Mount Evans to their north and gradually began the winding down toward the town of Denver.

  “We gonna spend some time in Denver City?” York asked.

  “Few days. Maybe a week. We both need to get groomed and curried and bathed, and our clothes are kind of shabby-looking.”

  “My jeans is so thin my drawers is showin’,” York agreed. “If we goin’ east, I reckon we’re gonna have to get all duded up like dandies, huh?”

  “No way,” Smoke’s reply was grim. “I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not. We’ll just dress like what we are. Westerners.”

  York sighed. “That’s a relief. I just cain’t see myself in one of them goofy caps like you wore back in Dead River.”

  Smoke laughed at just the thought. “And while we’re here, I’ve got to send some wires. Find out how Sally is doing and find out what’s happened up on the Sugarloaf.”

  “Pretty place you got, Smoke?”

  “Beautiful. And there’s room for more. Lots of room. You ever think about getting out of law work, York?”

  “More and more lately. I’d like to have me a little place. Nothin’ fancy; nothin’ so big me and a couple more people couldn’t handle it. I just might drift up that way once this is all over.”

  “You got a girl?”

  “Naw. I ain’t had the time. Captain’s been sendin’ me all over the territory ever since I started with the Rangers. I reckon it’s time for me to start thinking about settlin’ down.”

  “You might meet you an eastern gal, York.” Smoke was grinning.

  “Huh! What would I do with her? Them eastern gals is a different breed of cat. I read about them. All them teas and the like. I got to have me a woman that’ll work right alongside me. You know what ranchin’ is like. Hard damn work.”

  “It is that. But my Sally was born back east. Educated all over the world. She’s been to Paris!”

  “Texas?”

  “France.”

  “No kiddin’! I went to Dallas once. Biggest damn place I ever seen. Too damn many people to suit me. I felt all hemmed in.”

  “It isn’t like that up in the High Lonesome. I think you’d like it up there, York. We need good stable people like you. Give it some thought. I’ll help you get started; me and Sally.”

  “Right neighborly of y’all. Little tradin’ post up ahead. Let’s stop. I’m out of the makin’s.”

  While York was buying tobacco, Smoke sat outside, reading a fairly recent edition of a Denver paper. The city was growing by leaps and bounds. The population was now figured at more than sixty thousand.

  “Imagine that,” Smoke muttered. “Just too damn many folks for me.”

  He read on. A new theatre had been built, the Tabor Grand Opera House. He read on, suddenly smiling. He checked the date of the paper. It was only four days old.

  “You grinnin’ like a cat lickin’ cream, Smoke,” York said, stepping out and rolling a cigarette. “What got your funny bone all quiverin’?”

  “And old friend of mine is in town, York. And I just bet you he’d like to ride east with us.”

  “Yeah? Lawman?”

  “Businessman, scholar, gambler, gunfighter.”

  “Yeah?” Who might that be?”

  “Louis Longmont.”

  * * *

  “By the Lord Harry!” Louis exclaimed, standing up from his table in the swanky restaurant and waving at Smoke. “Waiter! Two more places here, s’il vous plait.”

  “What the hell did he say?” York whispered.

  “Don’t ask me,” Smoke returned the whisper.

  The men all shook hands, Smoke introducing York to Louis. Smoke had not seen Louis since the big shoot-out at Fontana more than a year ago. The man had not changed. Handsome and very sure of himself. The gray just touching his hair at the temples.

  Smoke also noted the carefully tailored suit, cut to accommodate a shoulder holster.

  Same ol’ Louis.

  After the men had ordered dinner—Louis had to do it, the menu being in French—drinks were brought aro
und and Longmont toasted them both.

  “I’ve been reading about the exploits of you men,” Louis remarked after sipping his Scotch. York noticed that all their liquor glasses had funny-looking square bits of ice in them, which did make the drink a bit easier on the tongue.

  “We’ve been busy,” Smoke agreed.

  “Still pursuing the thugs?”

  “You know we are, Louis. You would not have allowed your name to appear in the paper if you hadn’t wanted us to find you in Denver.”

  York sat silent, a bit uncomfortable with the sparkling white tablecloth and all the heavy silverware—he couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to do; after all, he couldn’t eat but with one fork and one knife, no how. And he had never seen so many duded-up men and gussied-up women in all his life. Even with new clothes on, it made a common fella feel shabby.

  “Let’s just say,” Louis said, “I’m a bit bored with it all.”

  “You’ve been traveling about?”

  “Just returned from Paris a month ago. I’d like to get back out in the country. Eat some beans and beef and see the stars above me when I close my eyes.”

  “Want to throw in with us, Louis?”

  Louis lifted his glass. “I thought you were never going to ask.”

  * * *

  Smoke and York loafed around Denver for a few days, while Louis wrapped up his business and Smoke sent and received several wires. Sally was fine; the baby was due in two months—approximately.

  “What does she mean by that?” York asked, reading over Smoke’s shoulder.

  “It means, young man,” Louis said, “that babies do not always cooperate with a timetable. The child might be born within several weeks of that date, before it or after it.”

  Louis was dressed in boots, dark pants, gray shirt, and black leather vest. He wore two guns, both tied down and both well-used and well-taken care of, the wooden butts worn smooth with use.

  York knew that Louis Longmont, self-made millionaire and world-famous gambler, was a deadly gunslinger. And a damn good man to have walkin’ with you when trouble stuck its head up, especially when that trouble had a six-gun in each hand.

  “Do tell,” York muttered.