Tall stiffened. He didn’t want to pull on Al Martine, even though he knew he was just as fast. But ‘just as fast’ won’t get it. Both men would have lead in them. And standing one foot apart, the wounds would be hideous.
The batwings pushed open and two of the most disreputable-looking men anyone had seen in a long time walked in. They both looked older than dirt. They were dressed in buckskins, except for hat and boots. Both wore bright red sashes around their lean waists. Pistols tucked behind the sashes. They carried Winchester rifles, the ’73 model.
“What the hell is that?” a Circle 45 hand asked.
“Puma Buck and Lee Staples,” Smoke said. “You boys have heard of them, I suppose.”
“Heard of them?” another gunny said from his chair, staring up at the old mountain men. “Hell, they been dead for years.”
With no wasted motion, Puma laid the butt of his Winchester into the hand’s face, busting his nose and knocking him out of the chair. “I’m a long way from dead, lad,” Puma told him. “And you put a hand on that short gun and I’ll kill you.”
The hand cursed and came up with his fist wrapped around the butt of a .45. Puma pulled the trigger of the Winchester and punched the gunfighter’s ticket for a long dark ride straight to hell.
“Whiskey!” Lee Staples hollered. “And plenty of it. It’s been a dusty ride. Smoke, my boy!” He stepped up and pounded Smoke on the arms and shoulders. “It’s been a long time.”
Puma stepped over the man Huggie had left on the floor and walked to the bar, shaking hands with Smoke. He smiled at Tall, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “This one I helped raise. Me and a whole passel of other mountain men. Get out of my gawddamned way.”
Tall’s eyes widened in shock. No one talked to him like that. But he moved away, stepping lightly, his back still to the bar. This crazy wild-eyed old man scared him. Tall knew to leave old folks alone. For they had very little to lose and would kill you in a heartbeat.
“Another time, Tall,” Martine said. He turned his back to the gunfighter and extended his hand to Puma. “I have heard of you for years, and I am honored to finally make your acquaintance. I am Al Martine, Mr. Buck, and this is my compadre, Carbone.”
“Pleased, boys. I’ve heared of you. You come up to hep my boy, here?”
“Your…son?” Carbone was startled.
Puma cackled. “No. Not no blood kin. But a bunch of us mountain men sort of adopted him when he was a tadpole. Any man who is an enemy of Smoke’s is an enemy of mine.” He turned to face the crowded room. “And I’ll kill any man who lifts a hand agin him. I’ll shoot you in the back, I’ll shoot you in the front. But I will kill you.”
“Now just wait a minute,” Harris said. “I’m the sheriff here, and I…”
“We don’t give a damn who you are,” Lee Staples said. “We don’t believe in waitin’ till a rabid skunk bites us ’fore we kill it. And don’t even think about givin’ me no lectures, I don’t take kindly to them. Me and Puma there, we’re somewheres around eighty years old. You think we really give a damn what you or anyone else says? Fifty years ago, I probably peed right here where this buildin’ is standin’. Probably leanin’ up agin a tree ’fore folks come in and cut ’em all down. Now you go run along and tend to lost dogs and treed cats. We’ll handle this.”
Harris stood speechless.
Puma looked at a young rider standing at the bar. “You work for the Circle 45, boy?”
“A…I, uh, yes, sir. I do. I hired on a couple of days ago.”
Puma hit him a vicious blow in the belly with the butt of the Winchester, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gagging, and fell to the floor. “Now you hear me, boy,” Puma said. “Playtime is over. I talked with some Injuns over on the Divide a few days ago. They tole me that this here Clint Black who owns the Circle 45 had hired men to kill Smoke Jensen. Is that what you hired on to do, boy?”
“I reckon so,” the young man gasped.
“Well…you a young man, you entitled to make a mistake. I did, a time or two. So I tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m not gonna kill you.”
Lee Staples had turned around, facing the men in the saloon, his Winchester level, hammer back. Carbone and Martine stood with him, hands over their guns. Huggie and Del faced the crowded room, smiles on their faces. Not a Circle 45 hand moved a muscle. Most tried to not even breathe.
“Git up!” Puma snapped, and the young man rose painfully. “Walk out of here, get on your horse, and ride. Don’t never let me see you within a hundred miles of this place whilst this little war is wagin’. ’Cause ifn I do, I’ll kill you on the spot. You understand all that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Git!”
The young man got.
Puma turned around, facing the men in the room. “Anybody else here work for the Circle 45? If you do, make your peace with the Almighty, ’cause you’re dyin’ today.”
“That son of a bitch is crazy!” a man whispered.
“Shut up,” his buddy whispered.
Puma smiled. “Lee? You step on outside and get ready to shoot anyone who tries to mount a horse wearin’ a Circle 45 brand.”
Sheriff Black smiled grudgingly. These old boys were putting on the pressure and screwing it down tight. The pot might take the steam a while longer, but everything was coming to a head and it had to blow the lid off soon.
He cut his eyes to Jensen. The man was leaning up against the bar, a slight smile on his lips. In a strange way, he’s enjoying this, Harris thought. Then he thought: well, why shouldn’t he? He was halfway raised by the likes of these randy, uncurried, wild ol’ mountain men. Their philosophy is his own.
None of the Circle 45 hands made any attempt to move toward the door. They did not doubt to a person that Lee Staples would shoot them down like a rabid animal if they went near any horse wearing Clint Black’s brand.
Smoke cut his eyes to Tall Mosley. “See you around, Tall.”
“Yeah,” Tall said. “Bet on it.”
Smoke walked out of the barroom, followed by Al Martine, Carbone, then Huggie and Del. Puma was the last one to leave, cautiously backing out, a wicked grin on his face.
Harris came out to the boardwalk a moment later.
“Think I won’t shoot you if you interfere?” Puma asked the sheriff.
Harris slowly shook his head. “No, Puma. I don’t doubt it for a second.”
“That’s good, Sheriff,” the old mountain man said. “’Cause me and Lee is gonna bring this here little pimple to a head.” His grin turned into a smile. “And we got a few more surprises to spring on you.”
“I can hardly wait,” Harris said drily.
Puma cackled out laughter. “Course your no-count brother ain’t gonna like it a bit.”
“You gun my brother down, without it being a fair shooting, or any other man in my jurisdiction for that matter, and you’ll face murder charges.”
“Hee, hee, hee,” Puma cackled. “And you think you be so keen with the high country you think you could find me out yonder in the lonesome?”
“No,” Harris said honestly. “I imagine you could lose yourself back there and I’d never find you. I’m just telling you what the charges will be, that’s all.”
“I think you a good man, Sheriff,” Puma told him. “Took you awhile to come to that, from all that I hear about you and your no-count brother, but you made a clean break. Now you ponder this bit of advice: don’t confuse bravery and duty with foolhardiness. You just sit back and concentrate on catchin’ chicken thieves and footpadders. Stay out of our way. And if you’re thinkin’ ’bout tryin’ to ’rrest any of us, from Smoke Jensen to me, think agin. ’Cause it ain’t gonna happen.”
“I’ll do my job,” Harris said stiffly. “This is not eighteen-thirty, Puma. It’s halfway civilized out here now.”
Puma spat his contempt for that remark. “If it was civilized, men like your brother would be rottin’ in the grave instead of hay-rassin’ decent folk.”
>
“You break the law, and I’ll arrest you, Puma.”
“You’ll never do such of a thing.”
Harris turned, stepped off the boardwalk, and walked to his office.
“What other surprises do you have in store, Puma?” Smoke asked.
“Hee, hee, hee,” Puma cackled mysteriously.
24
Those few hired guns who had ridden their own horses into town rode back to the ranch to get any horse that didn’t have a Circle 45 brand on it. They had taken Puma at his word, which was wise, for the old mountain man had meant what he said, Sheriff Black or no Sheriff Black.
“He what?” Bronco and Clint both screamed at the news.
Tall Mosley repeated what Puma had threatened, and added, “He meant it, Boss. That old man wasn’t kiddin’. I got to get some horses for the boys back in town.”
“Oh, go on, get them,” Clint said, shaking his head. “I should have guessed something like this would happen. I’ll be glad when those old coots are all dead. But Al Martine and Carbone? I can’t figure that. They were after Jensen not that long ago.”
“They switched sides,” Tall said. “I know the story. Martine and Carbone stopped hirin’ their guns and went to ranchin’ down in Mexico. Got them a right nice spread, so I hear. Call it the M/C. And believe me, they don’t have no trouble with rustlers or bandits.”
“Get the horses for the men,” Bronco said. When Tall had left the room, he said to Clint, “You really think that crazy old coot will shoot anyone ridin’ a Circle 45 horse?”
“Oh, yes,” Clint said without hesitation. “But I’ve got horses with every kind of brand you can imagine. And I have bills of sale for them. That’s no worry. Let’s walk outside to the porch. Stuffy in here.”
The rancher and foreman stepped out on the porch and a rifle barked, the slug howling off the stone of the house. Clint and Bronco hit the floor. Another slug, fired from a different direction, came screaming over their heads. A coyote yipped and a wolf replied in a howl.
“Those damned old coots brought friends with them,” Bronco said. “That’s no coyote or wolf.”
Tall Mosley and a few others, caught in the corral, could do nothing except stay low in the dirt, crouched behind whatever cover they could find. Which was precious little.
“Crawl back toward the door,” Clint said. “We can make the house.”
A hand came galloping in from the range and he went galloping back out as long-barreled Springfield rifles, with a range of over three thousand yards, began barking. One knocked his saddle horn off—and another blew his hat off his head. He laid down on the horse’s neck and got the hell gone from there.
The old mountain men on the ridges began making life miserable for those in the house and the hands in the bunkhouses. Stove pipes were knocked loose and windows were shattered. Doors were soon rendered useless as the lead knocked out great chunks of wood. Outhouses were riddled with heavy caliber lead and the horses in the corral screamed and reared and panicked and knocked down the gate. They went thundering out to open range, away from the frightening gunfire and the howling bullets.
Clint Black and Bronco Ford could do nothing except seek cover behind the stone of the house and cuss.
Back in town, the Circle 45 hands sat in the saloon and wondered when in the hell Tall and the others would get back with horses they could ride out on. Not a one of them even remotely considered attempting to mount up on a horse wearing the Circle 45 brand.
Smoke, Martine, Carbone, Huggie, Del, Puma, and Lee waited across the street from the saloon. Waited and watched and smiled at the plight of the hired guns. Harris Black and his deputies sat on the edge of the high boardwalk in front of the sheriff’s office.
And the citizens of the town, men, women, and kids, passed by the saloon in a never-ending stream, pointing and laughing at the grounded gunnies, while the hired guns drank whiskey and got madder by the minute.
“It’s comin’ to a head, Sheriff,” a deputy said. “We ought to stop them people over there. They’re gonna make them gunnies mad and they’ll be a killin’.”
“Not this day, there won’t,” Harris said, rolling a cigarette. “Those boys over there in the saloon aren’t fools. They know that if they opened up on civilians, they’d be slaughtered in two minutes. Smoke and those mountain men and Mex gunslingers would shoot that place to splinters and pick their teeth with what’s left.”
Farmers and riders for other small spreads came into town, saw what was going on, and immediately turned around and beat it back to their places, telling others of the events taking place in Blackstown. By early afternoon, the town was filled up with onlookers.
Out on the Circle 45 range, old mountain men were rounding up the horses and driving them out of the country while others of their kind were having fun riddling the house and bunkhouses with rifle fire.
Up to now, no one had been hurt on either side. Then Clint gave the orders—by shouting—to start making a fight of it.
“Is he out of his mind?” Jim Otis questioned. “Those sharpshooters are a good half mile off and on the ridges. Hell, we can’t even see them.”
“And I seen at least three riders makin’ a gatherin’ of the horses in the south range,” another said. “There’s something goin’ on that I ain’t too sure about.”
Bullets slammed through broken windows and through the now doorless frame. One clanged into a potbellied stove and whined off, spending itself against a wall.
“I’m gettin’ awful tired of this,” Curly Bob Kennedy said. “There’s a wash out back that I think we could make if we stay in the trees. How about it?”
“Let’s go,” another said. “Anything beats this.”
Then the firing abruptly stopped. The hired guns looked at each other for a moment, then slowly began getting to their feet. Most of them veterans of dozens of range wars and shootings, they sensed the sniping was over, at least for this day. A Circle 45 hand walked his horse into the corral. One arm was hanging useless and his shirt was bloody. He was helped from the saddle just as Clint and Bronco walked up.
“Old men,” he said. “Looked like they was all older than God. They rounded up the horses and drove them off. I tried to jerk iron on one of them and he shot me just as cold as could be. Told me to give you a message, Mr. Black. Told me to tell you that you wanted this war, you got it. Now what the hell are you goin’ to do about it?”
Clint’s face hardened. “Who were they, Tim?”
“Boss, I don’t know. I never seen none of them before. They was all dressed in buckskins. And they was old! All of ’em old men. They looked like them drawin’s of mountain men.”
“That’s what they are,” Tall said. “They’ve come out of the caves and hidden cabins up in the high lonesome to help Jensen.”
Clint Black did some fancy cussing. Scoundrel and murderer that he was, he was still a man of the West, and he knew what this development meant. There had never been a breed quite like the mountain man. They were, for the most part, solitary men who could go for months without seeing or speaking to anything other than their horses. They would brook no nonsense from any man, and if they were your friend, you had a friend for life. But if you were their enemy, they would shoot you on sight and do it without hesitation. Clint became aware that his hired guns had fallen silent and were all staring at him.
“They didn’t get all the horses,” Clint said. “Saddle them up and go into the east range and round up those over there. They haven’t been ridden in awhile so they’ll take some topping off. Cleon, you and Donovan hitch up a couple of wagons and go into town and get those men trapped in there.”
“In a wagon, boss?”
Clint’s hard eyes withered him silent. “You got a better idea, Cleon?”
“Ah…no, boss, I reckon not.”
“Then get moving. The rest of you start picking up and repairing the damage. I’ve got to think.”
“I think I’ll ride in with the wagons,” a newly hi
red gunhand said. “Get me a room at the hotel and take the mornin’ stage out. That is, if you ain’t got no objections. If you do, I’ll walk in.” He dug in his pocket and came up with greenbacks. “Here’s your advance pay, Mr. Black. I ain’t done nothin’ to earn it.”
Clint waved away the money. “You got shot at. That’s enough. Ride in with the wagons and be damned.” He turned and walked back to his shot-up house, Bronco walking beside him.
Hal Bruner looked at the gunny. “You think it’s that bad, Teddy?”
“I think it’s that bad. Man, Clint Black ain’t got a friend in this world. The whole countryside is against him. Now these wild men done come out of their holes and is gunnin’ for him and anyone who rides for him. I’m gone.” He walked back to his bunkhouse to gather up his belongings.
“I think I’ll tag along with Teddy,” another newly hired gunslinger said. “I’m out of this party.”
“Then git,” Grub Carson said. “I don’t want no man stayin’ that I can’t count on.”
“Let’s go get them horses,” Yukon said. “Damned if I feel like walkin’ into town.”
“Who says we’re goin’ into town?” Slim King asked.
“We’re goin’,” Yukon maintained. “Clint ain’t gonna stand for this. Beginnin’ right now, boys, we start earnin’ our money.”
It was an embarrassed bunch of gunslingers who climbed into the bed of the wagons for the bumpy ride back to the Circle 45 range. None of them made any effort to retrieve whatever possessions they might have had in the saddlebags or to get their rifles in the boot. A townsperson talked briefly with Cleon and Donovan, and after the wagons had left he walked over to the sheriff.
“Somebody attacked the Circle 45 headquarters and run off all their horses. They really shot the place up bad. No one was killed, but a hand took a round in the shoulder.”
Smoke, who was standing nearby, said, “Don’t look at me, Sheriff. I don’t know a thing about it and I’d swear on a Bible I had no knowledge of it.”
“I believe you,” Harris said. “But this little stunt just might be the final straw for my brother. You best brace yourself.” He looked around. Puma and Lee had vanished. “Now where did those two old rowdies go?”
Absaroka Ambush (first Mt Man)/Courage Of The Mt Man Page 45
