Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “It’s not, I assure you,” Louis Longmont added.

  “So, what is this work you have? Cargo to unload? Sure. Warehouse to clean out? Sure. We can do anything.”

  “Speak for yourself, Luke,” his companion snipped.

  “This job does entail some danger. You may have to fight to preserve the peace.”

  “You ain’t offering us a place with the police, are you?” Luke objected.

  “Far from it,” Smoke Jensen assured him. “I have recently inherited a famous sporting house in San Francisco. I need some strong, honest men to keep order. I know nothing about running such a place, but there is a nice young lady who is in charge. She can explain your routine duties to you. As for the other, there are some interests in town who don’t want me to keep the place.”

  Louis joined the outline of what might be expected. “We will not be able to be there all the time. It would then be up to you to eject any of their convincers who happened around.”

  Luke squared his shoulders and gave them a roll suggestive of readiness. “A bouncer, eh? I’ve been one before. What’s it pay?”

  “Right now, fifty dollars a week.”

  Luke’s jaw sagged. “I don’t believe you. That’s more than a month’s wages.”

  “It is quite correct,” Louis said sincerely.

  “Why, sure, Mister,” Luke addressed Smoke. “Far’s I’m concerned, you got yourself another bouncer.” He looked beyond Smoke to the big man who intently took in their conversation to illustrate his meaning.

  “Count me out,” Luke’s surly friend stated flatly.

  “That’s two,” Smoke agreed, lightly. “What we need is about six more.”

  Louis rolled his eyes.

  * * *

  Outside the next hiring hall, Smoke Jensen and his companions came face-to-face with a large group of longshoremen. Smoke noted their mood to be surly at best, if not downright hostile. A barrel-chested inverted wedge of a man stepped forward, a hand raised in a sign to stop.

  “That’s far enough. You fellers have been pokin’ around here long enough. It’s time for you to get yourselves out of here. And you, too,” he gestured to Luke and the other dockworker. “You ain’t workin’ for them nohow. Come over here with us.”

  “Sorry,” Smoke answered lightly. “Can’t do that. I need about six more good men to work for me.”

  “Well, you can’t have ’em,” the spokesman snapped.

  Smoke was quickly getting riled. First the running gunfight with the railway thugs in Chinatown, and now this. “By whose authority?” he asked with deadly calm.

  Pointing to the sign over the doorway to the hiring hall, the aggressive longshoreman bit off his words. “D’you see that sign? This here’s the North Star Shipping Company. Mr. Huntley heard what you two were up to and told me special to see you got run off from the docks. So take a hike.”

  Sharp-edged menace covered every word Smoke Jensen spoke. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then we’ll have to remove you.”

  Luke stepped forward and spoke uneasily in Smoke’s ear. “What are we gonna do? They got us outnumbered five-to-one.”

  A taunting grin lighted Smoke’s face. “Simple. We surround them.”

  No stranger to street fighting, Luke understood immediately. “Sure. We spread out and hit them from four places at once. But that don’t make the numbers any less.”

  “I think we have the advantage,” Smoke spoke from the corner of his mouth. “I failed to introduce myself and my friend. I’m Smoke Jensen. He’s Louis Longmont.”

  “The Smoke Jensen?” Luke asked in an awe-filled tone.

  “There’s only one I know of.”

  “I’ve heard of you. Read about your doin’s in the far mountains. Read about Mr. Longmont, too. The fast gun from New Orleans. I’m honored to be in such famous company.” Luke dusted his hands together in eagerness. “We’d better get at it, right?”

  “Yes. Before they take it on themselves to start the dance,” Smoke agreed.

  “Take ’em, boys,” Huntley’s lead henchman commanded.

  At once, the phalanx of longshoremen surged forward. Smoke and company separated. Before the dockworkers realized it, they had been flanked by the two most deadly gunfighters in the nation. Two of them turned to face Smoke Jensen. He stepped in and swiftly punched the nearest one in the mouth.

  Shaking his head, the hard case threw a right at Smoke, which the last mountain man took on the point of his shoulder. He rolled with it and went to work on the mouth again. Lips split under a left-right combination. Blood began to flow in a torrent when Smoke hooked a right into the damaged area. His opponent tried for an uppercut and failed to land it. Smoke took him by the upthrust arm and threw him into his companion.

  A quick glance told Smoke the other three had their hands full, though they managed to deal with it. Then two more came at him. As they closed in, Smoke extended his arms widely and jumped into the air.

  Eager for a quick end to it, the thugs closed in, shoulder to shoulder. Smoke Jensen clapped his hands together, one to the opposite side of each of his attackers’ heads. He slammed their noggins together and they went down groggy and aching. Louis had two longshoremen at his feet, out of the battle. Luke had accounted for one and had another in an arm lock around his head. Methodically Luke pounded the man in the face.

  Enough of that, the gang of thugs seemed to conclude at once. Fists rapidly filled with cargo hooks and knives.

  7

  One pug-faced grappler lunged at Smoke Jensen with a wicked long-bladed pig-sticker. Swiftly Smoke filled his hand with a .45 Colt Peacemaker. The hammer fell and brought a roar of exploding gunpowder. The longshoreman went off to meet his maker. Smoke reckoned the meeting would not be a friendly one. He took note that Louis had his own six-gun in action. While those menacing him backpedaled, confused by this sudden turn of events, Smoke reached left-handed for his second revolver and freed it from leather.

  A line of fire blew across Smoke’s left forearm. He pivoted in that direction and jammed the muzzle of his right-hand Colt up under the knife-wielder’s rib cage and squeezed the trigger. Hot gases shredded the thug’s intestines, while the bullet punched through his diaphragm and exploded his heart before exiting his body behind his right collarbone.

  “Luke!” he barked in warning as he tossed the Colt to the young dockworker.

  Facing three men armed with deadly six-guns changed the outlook of the dock brawlers. Few of them owned a firearm, and fewer had ever been in a gunfight. With a curse, the leader called his men off. They fled down the bayside street. The fight ended as quickly as it had begun. Smoke Jensen had a shallow slash on his left forearm. Louis Longmont was bent slightly, one hand clutching at a ragged tear at the point of one shoulder, which he had received from a cargo hook. His remark showed he felt little of it.

  “It is nothing, mon ami. A big steak and a shot of brandy will make everything right again.”

  “Wonder why they didn’t stay around?” Smoke asked jokingly. “Let me wrap up that arm for you, Louis. And then it’s time for us to find six more good men.”

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont returned to Francie’s with six big, capable men, two less than Smoke had wanted, yet enough, he felt sure, to do the job. He gathered them in the spacious former ballroom, which had been converted into a saloon. Lucy joined Smoke and Louis there. Smoke introduced her and began to outline their duties to the collection of seamen and dockworkers.

  “Two of you will be on watch in alternating four-hour shifts, day and night. You are to hold this place against anyone who comes here fixing to throw the ladies out. The weakest places are the back door to the kitchen and the French doors to the drawing room. A twelve-year-old could knock them down. I suggest you put some heavy furniture in front of them. The kitchen door can be blocked with that butcher’s block in the middle of the room when needed. No drinking on duty, and only two drinks while off. When the emergency
is over, we’ll have a rip-roaring party that will be the talk of the town. Until then, I want you all sober.

  “In the event someone tries to break in, everyone will respond. You will all be given a rifle or shotgun. Make good use of them, if need be.” He paused. “Any questions?”

  “Why’s someone want to take over this place?”

  Smoke smiled at him. “It makes a lot of money. That’s not all of it. There are some powerful men who aim to take over every saloon and bawdy house in town. I learned yesterday that they intended to start with this one. I also discovered that Miss Francie refused to sell at a piddling price. Later she was run down by a freight wagon no one saw. I own it now and I don’t intend to let these ladies be turned into virtual slaves by anyone.”

  “Who are these men?” Luke asked.

  “Cyrus Murchison, Titus Hobson, and Gaylord Huntley.”

  Luke’s eyes narrowed at the list of names and he gave a slight start. “That’s why Huntley’s dockyard trash set on us, right?”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Smoke advised him. “Another thing—don’t wear yourselves out on off-duty time. In other words, no sampling of the wares.”

  That brought six loud groans. Smoke suppressed a smile. He had chosen well, he concluded. “Any other questions?”

  “Where will you be while we watch over these pretty doves?” a man called Ox asked.

  “Louis and I will be out finding a way to put an end to this cabal’s schemes.”

  “Sure you won’t need some help?” Ox asked.

  Luke answered for Smoke. “Ox, I know you saw how four of us took care of twenty of Huntley’s bully-boys. What do you think?”

  Ox produced a gap-toothed grin, the absent teeth the result of more than one brawl. “I think we’ll be missing out on a lot of fun.”

  None of the newly hired protectors had more questions. Smoke Jensen released them to their tasks and strolled to the front door with Louis Longmont. “Old friend, we’re going back to Chinatown. I want to get those Tong thugs off our back before we go after Murchison and company.”

  * * *

  Monte Carson, hat in hand, stood on the porch of Smoke Jensen’s home on the Sugarloaf. Earlier in the afternoon, Sally Jensen had sent a hand to town to summon the lawman. Now he listened to Sally’s account of what had happened. His frown deepened and a flush rose to color his face darkly.

  “Why, them rotten damn polecats!” he growled, then flushed deeper. “Pardon my language, Miss Sally. I can’t help it. You say one’s dead and the other is waiting for me inside? How’d that happen?”

  “I shot Buck when he made lewd suggestions and took a grab for me.”

  “Good for you, I don’t doubt he deserved it.”

  “It was not . . . pleasant, Monte.”

  “I understand. Well,” he went on, gesturing to his deputy still astride his lathered mount at the tie-rail, “best put the other one in shackles and get him out of here.”

  Monte’s deputy came forward with an armful of leg irons, chains, and handcuffs. He and Monte entered the house. Sally remained on the porch, preferring not to observe the conclusion of this affair. When the sheriff and his deputy returned, a crestfallen Jason Rucker accompanied them. His appearance shocked Sally.

  Leg irons enclosed his ankles, a chain running from the midpoint to another set of links around his waist. His wrists were restrained by thick steel cuffs, and again extended from the coupling bar to his waist. Tear tracks streaked his sallow cheeks, the usual tan faded to a sickly yellow. The corpse of Buck Jarvis had been wrapped in a tarp and draped over his horse by Jason Rucker. The morgan stood knock-kneed at the tie-rail, its loose hide rippling nervously in the presence of death. Monte paused beside Sally while his deputy frog-marched Jase to his waiting mount. She wondered how she could explain all this to Bobby.

  “What will happen to him now, Monte?”

  Monte Carson paused, weighing how to tell her. “He’ll be tried, of course. Most likely he’ll hang.”

  Sally lowered her eyes. “I’m . . . sorry. Oh, not that he will be punished. But I am sorry that this happened in the first place. It seems that there is something terribly wrong with a lot of the younger people these days.”

  Monte scratched his graying head. “Don’t I know it. Well, we’d best be movin’ on. It’s a long way to Big Rock. And, stop frettin’ yourself, Miss Sally. You’ll be safe enough.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt of that, Monte. Though I will need a new purse.”

  * * *

  Tyrone Beal arrived in Parkerville on the late train. He located the incompetent henchmen in the nearest saloon. He accepted that philosophically. They could sober up on the ride to the Wagner claim. He’d be damned if he failed again.

  “Why’er we goin’ now?” Spencer demanded with a drunken slur.

  “Because I say we are,” Beal barked.

  “It’ll be dark before we get there,” Quint objected with beery breath.

  “That’s why we’re going now. We didn’t do too well in daylight, did we?” Beal taunted.

  “Bet your ass,” Spencer muttered sullenly.

  They rode out ten minutes later. Beal took the lead, the route burned into his mind. They began the climb into the foothills along the Sacramento River as the sun sank below the coastal range. That still left ample light, the afterglow would last for a good two hours. Grumbles came to Beal’s ears from the whiskey-soaked hard cases behind him. He kept a strict silence, letting his irritation with these incompetents feed his anger.

  That was the good part. Spencer had informed him that Wagner had taken on a partner, a man reputed to be good with a gun. That didn’t set too well with Beal. It had caused him to make changes in his plan. He knew what he would do now. It varied little from his original. Of course, that could be a little rough on Wagner.

  * * *

  Ray Wagner had returned to his claim the previous day. Some of the bruises had faded slightly, and he wore his left arm, broken in two places, in a sling. His ribs had been tightly bound and he moved like an arthritic old man. He had taken the precaution to bring along a burly miner friend of his as a minority partner. Let them come again, he thought. Eli Colter had a small reputation as a shootist. He wore a six-gun slung low on his right hip, another tucked into the waistband of his trousers on the left. And he could use them.

  Ray had seen Eli face down three rowdy highwaymen who’d tried to rob him. He had killed two of them and wounded the third. Not a one of the robbers had gotten off a shot. He mused on this fact as he added another stick of firewood to the cookfire in a ring of stones. Above him, blue slowly faded into gray, and the first stars twinkled in the black velvet of the east.

  A cloud of sparks ascended as he released the piece of firewood. He froze a second when his ears picked out the distinctive sound of a hoof striking a small rock. Slowly he uncoiled his body and came upright. A quick glance located Eli Colter.

  “Eli,” he cautioned tense and low. “I think we are about to have visitors. Be ready.”

  A gravelly voice answered him. “No problem, Ray.”

  “This ought to hold the fire until morning,” Ray speculated, as he added another stick. When he came upright again, he directed his hand to the butt of the finely made Mauser revolver in a flap holster at his hip. Constantly alert, he went about preparing to roll up in his blankets.

  He glanced away from the treeline for only a moment to do so, yet when he looked back, four men, led by Tyrone Beal, appeared as if by magic at the edge of the firelight. Wagner braced himself, certain a showdown was in the offing. Beal dismounted and came forward. Without a word, he thrust the quit-claim deed at Wagner.

  “I told you I would never sign. You are trespassing. Get off my claim or I will bury you here.”

  Beal sighed gustily. “You failed to profit from my previous lesson, I see. You are feeling very cocky, eh, Fritzie?”

  “I will not sign,” Wagner ground out in a hard, flat voice, and went for his gun.
<
br />   Eli Colter slapped leather a split second later. He never got off a shot. Two of the hard cases with Beal gunned him down before the muzzle could clear leather.

  “You don’t have a chance,” Beal warned. “Sign it and be damned.”

  Raising his Mauser 10mm revolver to chest level, Wagner shook his head in the negative. “I will not.”

  At once, all four hard cases tore into him with hot lead. When they finished, eleven bullets had struck Ray Wagner. He lay at Beal’s feet, quivering on the threshold of death. Tyrone Beal coldly stepped close to the dead man and rolled him over with the toe of one boot. He looked down at the deed in his other hand, shrugged, and signed it himself.

  “Got that signed at last,” he commented flatly as he walked away. “Mount up. We’ve got a long ride in the dark.”

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont spent a fruitless afternoon and evening in Chinatown. They picked up Louis’s belongings at the Palace Hotel and he moved into the bordello. Morning found them at the breakfast table. Louis took another long draw on his cup of coffee and smacked his lips.

  “This is excellent coffee,” he remarked.

  “They’re the same Colombian Arabica beans Cyrus Murchison prefers,” Lucy Glover informed him.

  That raised some eyebrows. “Murchison? How did Francie get her hands on anything he fancied?” Smoke asked.

  “The captain of the ship that brings them to San Francisco was a great admirer of Francie’s. He always saw to it that at least one full bag got delivered here. Murchison has never known.”

  Smoke joined Louis in laughter. When they subsided, Louis asked Smoke the key question. “What do we do today?”

  “Go back and try to find a lead to Xiang Lee.”

  Louis made a face. Before he could make a response, Ophilia came to the doorway to the breakfast room. “Mistah Smoke, they’s two po-lice here askin’ for you.”

  Smoke and Louis exchanged glances. “We are not at home, Ophilia.”

  Eyes twinkling with approval for Smoke, Ophilia left to deliver this message to the lawmen. She liked a man with spunk. This would sure put those officious policemen in their place. Her enjoyment was dampened somewhat by their reaction.