“Monte, you never change. I’m on my way to San Francisco, thought I’d stop by and let you know I’d be gone from the Sugarloaf.”
“Glad you did. I’ve been hopin’ for an excuse to go after a cup of coffee with a shot of rye in it. Let’s go down to the Gold Field.”
“Might as well. I’ve got a three-hour wait.”
Out of doors again, the two old friends ambled down the street, lawman fashion—out in the middle, where no one could come at them suddenly from a doorway. Smoke Jensen had often trod both sides of the law. Yet he had always returned, passionately, to the side of decency. The main thing that had kept him from settling down and accepting a permanent badge, as Monte had done, was all the infernal walking a man had to do in the job. One could not rattle doorknobs from horseback. Of course, the deputy U.S. marshal’s badge he carried in the fold of his wallet was another matter entirely.
None of the mundane details of a peace officer’s routine stifled his freedom of movement or action. Smoke rarely used it, and he thought of it even less. Yet it was a comfort, given the reputation he had acquired, much of it the fanciful blathering of the authors of the penny dreadfuls and dime novels. More than once, his marshal’s badge had gotten him out of tight spots. In the last few years he had not needed to resort to it often.
Perhaps the world had indeed passed him by while he’d languished in the beautiful valley that housed his ranch. He banished such thoughts when he realized Monte had been talking to him for some while.
“. . . Like I said, this country is getting downright tame.”
“Uh—yep. Funny thing, I was just thinking the same thing,” Smoke responded.
“Used to be, it was wild fights. Now, I don’t bust the head of more than one rowdy drunk a week.”
Smoke gave his friend a puzzled look. “You’re complaining, Monte?”
Monte sucked his cheeks hollow as he contemplated that. “Well, now, I ‘m not sayin’ that I object all that much. Bruises take longer to heal at my age. I caught me a winner of a shiner three weeks ago. The last of the yaller an’ green faded out yesterday.”
Smoke joined him in a hearty laugh. Abruptly, new voices, harsh and slurred by whiskey, interrupted their camaraderie. “What we got here?”
“Couple of old farts hoggin’ the street, I’d say.”
“You be right, Rupe. Hey, Grandpa, ain’t you got horses? Or cain’t you git up in the saddle anymore?”
“That’s the ticket, Bri. You geezers get over on that boardwalk. The street is for men.”
Brian’s fourth companion joined in. “That big ’un’s packin’ iron, boys. S’pose he knows how to use it?”
The menace in his words froze Smoke Jensen and Monte Carson in their steps. Slowly, they turned as one to face their drunken tormentors. Arctic glaciers covered Smoke’s words. “If you are looking for a lesson, I would be glad to oblige.”
Monte laid a hand on Smoke’s forearm. “No need for that, ol’ hoss. Remember, you have a train to catch in less than three hours.”
Brian got back into it. “D’ya hear that, Casey? This doddering idiot is calling you out.”
Rupe got his two cents in, as well. “Fin, you think we oughta back up ol’ Casey? That feller looks mighty mean.”
Truth to tell, the years had been kind to Smoke Jensen. He still retained the barrel chest and large, powerful muscles of his youth. His face was creased, but with the squint lines of an outdoorsman. Only the faintest traces of gray could be seen at his temples. Those, and the streak of pure white where a bullet had once gouged his scalp, provided the only indications that he was not a man in his early thirties. The legendary speed of his draw had not diminished a jot. Still, he had no quarrel with these intoxicated louts. Smoke raised a hand in a gesture of peace.
“There’ll be no gunfighting,” he declared, in as soft a tone as he could manage.
With a skin full of liquor, Fin just had to push it. “Oh, yeah? You insulted my friends, and I’m not going to let you get away with it, old man.”
Smoke cut his eyes to Monte and sighed heavily. “I don’t see as how there’s much you can do about it. My friend and I simply will not draw on you.”
Swinging a leg over his mount, Brian issued a new challenge. “Then, what say we step down and pound you into the ground like a fence post?”
Smoke Jensen had run out of all his nice guy attitude. His eyes turned a dangerous ice-gray and narrowed while he drew on a pair of thin black leather gloves he carried folded over his cartridge belt. “If you try it, I’ll have to kick your butt up between your shoulder blades.”
That did it. Fin, Rupe, Brian, and Casey cleared their saddles and rushed at Smoke Jensen and Monte Carson. Brian swung a hard fist that did not connect. With surprising speed, Smoke had stepped back. Confused, Brian hesitated. Which gave Smoke time to set himself for a hog-stopper of a punch. A blissful smile lighted his face as he rapped Brian solidly in the teeth.
Blood flew from one tooth that broke off. Brian rocked back on his feet and shook his head. A red haze misted his eyes. To his left, Fin threw a punch that landed hard against Smoke’s ribs. Without taking his gaze from Brian, Smoke snapped a sharp sideways right that landed in the center of Fin’s sternum and put him on his butt. Smoke cut a quick glance Monte’s way.
The marshal had all he could handle in Rupe and Casey. Arms windmilling, the young louts rained a series of blows down on Monte that drove him backward. While Smoke watched, the quick-moving youths drove Monte to one knee. This wouldn’t be as easy as he had thought, Smoke realized, as he set himself to receive Brian’s charge.
2
Brian came at him like a furious bull. The punches he had gleefully planned a moment before did not land. Smoke Jensen received the young bully with a series of stinging, punishing blows to the face, left . . . right . . . left . . . right... left. A cut opened above Brian’s left eye that sent a sheet of blood to blind him. His nose smashed, more crimson fountains joined the flow. Already damaged lips grew fatter and scarlet ribbons of tinted saliva hung in long strands. Brian’s knees buckled when the hard leather-encased knuckles of Smoke Jensen crashed solidly against his jaw.
Taking a step back as Brian toppled, Smoke brought up a knee with blurring speed. It cracked under the point of Brian’s chin. He went to the ground twitching and unconscious. That didn’t slow Fin any. He had recovered enough to fly at Smoke, arms held wide, to grab the older man around the waist. They crashed to the dirt of the street together. Fin’s arms tightened, squeezing Smoke’s intestines painfully. Air gushed from his lungs. Dark dots danced before Smoke’s eyes. Fin drove a shoulder into Smoke’s gut.
Sharp agony shot through Smoke’s liver. Smoke rolled slowly to the side until Fin was on top. Then he drove a fist into Fin’s right kidney. It brought forth a grunt and a howl. A second hammer blow brought another grunt and a loosening of Fin’s grip. Smoke smacked him soundly on the top of the head. Fin’s arms fell away. Smoke grabbed Fin by the chin and the back of his head. His slackened neck muscles gave little resistance as Smoke twisted violently to his right. Just short of breaking Fin’s neck, he let off pressure.
Fin began to twitch and jerk like a demented marionette. Arms and legs flew akimbo as he did a crab scuttle in the dust. In the next second, Smoke Jensen turned to aid his older friend. Monte Carson had one of the punks bent over a tie-rail, pounding the exposed, taut belly of Rupe like a drum. Clutching an abandoned length of two-by-four, Casey began a swing at Monte’s head.
Smoke got to him first. Before Casey could launch his attack, Smoke grabbed the chunk of lumber and yanked backward. Casey went off his feet. He struck the ground on his shoulders. Give him credit, Smoke thought, he bounded right back. Snarling, the bully swung the board at Smoke. The last mountain man anticipated that and dodged. With his opponent off balance, Smoke kicked him in the knee. Wobbly, Casey doubled over, to catch a fist in his face. He backpedaled two painful steps and then sat down. Hands at the ready, Smoke Jensen surveye
d their accomplishments.
Fin still jittered on the street, his face in a pile of horse dung. A groggy Brian tried to regain his feet. His face a mass of red gore, he shook his head, which released a shower of droplets. Bleary-eyed, he located his enemy and stumbled toward Smoke Jensen. His arms weighed a ton each. In aching slow motion, he raised his fists and set himself for a punch.
It came not from Brian, but from Smoke. Brian’s head snapped back, his knees buckled and he toppled like a fallen tree. Smoke stepped in to finish him. Monte Carson released the drunken lout he had been pounding and turned to Smoke Jensen.
“That’s enough, Smoke.”
“Whaaa?” Rupe bleated. Clutching his badly pounded belly, Rupe looked up as though from a deep bow. “What’d you call him?”
“Smoke,” Monte answered simply. “His name is Smoke Jensen.”
“Aaah, gaaad!” Rupe wailed. “Please, Mr. Jensen, please don’t kill us.”
Smoke turned to the youth. “I didn’t start this.”
“I know—I know,” Rupe babbled. “Only we was just funnin’. Please spare us, Mr. Jensen. I—I know who you are.”
“Obviously,” Smoke replied icily. “Too bad you didn’t before you started this.”
Fin had stopped twitching and now came to all fours with a groan. “Didn’t mean no harm, Mr. Jensen,” he whined, whey-faced.
Smoke glowered at them. “It sure as thunder didn’t look like it.”
“I should lock the four of you up until you get sober.”
“Who are you? The marshal?”
“No. I’m Sheriff Monte Carson.”
“Oh, Jesus, now I know we’re dead,” Rupe sobbed.
“Like I said, I should lock you up, but I figure you’ve had enough punishment for one day. Now, get your partners on their horses and get the hell out of Big Rock. You have a quarter hour.”
“Yes, sir—yes, sir, oh, yessir!” Rupe gobbled in terror and relief.
They managed it in less than five. Their humiliation-reddened ears still rang with the sound of hearty laughter from Smoke Jensen and Monte Carson as they cleared the city limit.
* * *
Out in California, in the goldfields on the Sacramento River, a miner worked his claim alone under the shade of huge, ancient live oaks. A crafty man and a proficient prospector, Ray Wagner had forged higher up the river than those who had been attracted by the magnet of the Sutter’s Mill discovery more than thirty years before. Logic and a basic knowledge of physics told him that the gold found farther down had to have a source higher up. As a result, he had a prosperous claim that produced threefold what the next most productive outfit took from the river. He had just dumped a shovel-load of mud and gravel into his riffle-box sluice when he sensed the presence of others.
Always a cautious man, Wagner had a bulky, superbly made 10mm Mauser tucked in the waistband of his trousers. He set the shovel aside, and instead of reaching for the gold pan to work the finings, he put his long, strong fingers around the parrot-bill butt of the revolver. Then he turned to confront his uninvited guests.
“Won’t be no need for that, Mister,” a runty, bow-legged specimen, who had Cornish miner written all over him, declared in a crusty voice.
Level nut-brown eyes fixed on the intruder. “I didn’t hear you howdy m’ claim,” Ray Wagner challenged tightly.
“Well, we did. Likely you didn’t hear us for the water rushing through that sluice. If you be Raymond Wagner, we have something important for you.
“Yeah, I am,” Wagner replied.
The runty one produced a sheaf of documents in a stiff, blue paper legal binder. “These are for you. All you need do is sign where the x-marks are.”
Suspicious, Wagner did not reach for the papers, but kept his grip on his Mauser. “What is it I’m signing?”
“No need to read through ’em. Just sign.”
Wagner’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “I never sign anything I haven’t read.”
“All right,” was the testy response. “Take ’em and read.”
Wagner reached left-handed and took the documents. He quickly learned that they were a quit-claim deed and transfer of title for his claim. His thin lips hardened into a stubborn line. Tethering his anger, he pushed the papers back toward the former Cornishman.
“I will not sign these. I do not wish to leave this place, or give up my gold find.”
Meanness revealed itself in the runt’s face and he and his companions spread out, away from their horses. “You really don’t have a choice. Now, sign them like a good boy, pack up, and be on your way.”
“And what am I to be paid for my claim?”
“Paid?” the runt repeated. “Why, with the enjoyment of the rest of your life.”
That brought the Mauser out with respectable speed. “Unglüclicher Bastarben! Get off my claim, you miserable bastards,” Wagner repeated his curse in English. “I will give you two minutes to get out of sight.”
Shaking with rage, the runty one stalked to his horse and mounted. “We’ll be back. And when we come, you will regret this.”
“I think not,” Wagner countered. “Now, move, or be buried here.”
* * *
Smoke Jensen got up from the table considerably better off than when he had taken a seat some two hours earlier. “Thank you, gentlemen, for an entertaining evening.”
With that, he departed the smoking car of the Union Pacific Daylight Flyer, westbound for California. Two men, modest winners in their own right, left behind him. The carriage was provided for the convenience of gentlemen who wished to indulge in tobacco or spirits, or both, while making the long journey from their homes to their distant destinations. Three round baize-covered tables also accommodated those who wished to wager on a game of skill. In this case, poker, to be exact. Over the time Smoke had been in the game, the fortunes of those in the game had declined steadily, for three of them quite sharply. One of the heavy losers spoke bitterly, his tone one of whining complaint.
“I still say he cheated.”
“No,” an older man said. “Only a matter of real skill, I would say.”
“But, it ain’t fair; he took all of me an’ Billy’s money,” the complainer sniveled.
“Teddy’s right,” a pouting Billy added to the whining. “He done cleaned us out, near on eight hundred dollars. Money we earned fair and square.” Earned in this case by driving cattle to market and selling them. Other people’s cattle.
Smarting from his own substantial loss, the elder man could bear their childish petulance no further. “If you really feel that way, why don’t you go take it away from him?” he asked sarcastically.
Billy and Teddy exchanged surprised glances. They hadn’t thought of that. Now, with Smoke out of the room, the sheer size and latent menace forgotten, the idea presented enormous appeal. A wicked light of cupidity shone in Billy’s eyes as he cut them to the older man.
“You’re a smart man, Mr. Rankin. We’d of never thought of that. What say, Teddy? You game for it?”
Teddy was already out of his chair. “You bet I am. Let’s git on with it.”
A teasing light of cynicism flickered in Rankin’s eyes. “Of course, you’ll replace my losses in return for finding the solution?”
“Oh, sure, Mr. Rankin. You can count on that,” Teddy burbled.
When pigs start to fly, Rankin thought. But, never mind; he had his own idea of how to retrieve his portion, and with considerable interest. He wished the youthful rustlers well and watched them on their way.
* * *
Billy and Teddy caught up with Smoke Jensen on the platform between the parlor car behind the smoker and the Pullman beyond that. Through the beveled glass lattice window of the car door they saw him crossing over to the far platform, hand out to grasp the brass latch lever. Teddy was slobbering in eagerness, his hand on the grip of the underpowered Colt .38 Model ‘77 Lightning in the Furstnow/Zimmerman “Texas” style shoulder holster in his left armpit. When Billy y
anked open the door on their side, he also drew his .44 Colt.
Yelling to be heard over the rattle and clatter of the steel-wheeled trucks, he called to Smoke, “Hold it right there, Jensen!”
Smoke risked a quick look over one shoulder and noted that both had weapons in hand. “What seems to be the problem?”
“You cheated, and we want our money back,” Teddy enlightened him.
“Sorry. I don’t cheat and you don’t get anything back.”
“You think because we’re young, we’ll bluff easy,” Teddy snarled. “You don’t even know who we are.”
“Two boys in way over their heads, I’d say,” Smoke said.
“We’re danger. We’re the biggest, meanest, smartest rustler gang in Wyoming, Colorado, and Kansas, that’s who we are.”
Smoke had all he could take of this pair. “Frankly, I think you are full of crap. Grow up, Sonny and take your loss like a man.”
“Then we’ll take it from you if we have to kill you to do it,” Billy railed.
“You’ll never make it, Sonny.”
“Goddamn you, Jensen!” Billy shrieked.
Smoke could not hear the sear notches on Billy’s six-gun ratchet to full-cock over the noise of the train, but he knew it happened. He flexed his knees and pivoted on his left boot heel. His .45 Colt Peacemaker appeared in his right fist as though by magic. Even with their six-guns at the ready, Smoke’s prediction came true. He put his first bullet into Teddy’s shoulder. His second took Billy in the gut.
Teddy dropped his Lightning and began to scream and cry like a girl. For all the speed of the double-action revolver, he had not been able to get it in play. Billy tried to raise his Colt again and Smoke shot him a second time. An expression of surprised disbelief fixed his features in a pinched, puckered mouth and blankly staring eyes. Slowly he sagged to his knees, then toppled sideways. His six-gun forgotten, he began to writhe in agony. Smoke stepped quickly across and kicked the revolver away from the young thug. Suddenly the door behind Billy flew open and Rankin appeared in the entrance, backlighted by the yellow glow of kerosene lamps. The blue steel barrel of the Merwin and Hulbert .44 in his left hand glittered wickedly.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 26
