Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Jake walked closer to the bar, his fancy spurs jingling. “Mister, I think you’re a liar and a coward. What do you have to say about that?”

  “I think you’d better go home before I decide to change your diapers.”

  The bar cleared, the men leaving as of one mind. Only the faro dealer remained in the direct line of fire. He knew that if Bonner was dumb enough to draw — or attempt to draw — he’d never get a shot off. The faro dealer figured he was in the safest spot in the saloon.

  “Before you what?” Jake’s words were almost a scream.

  Smoke was getting angry, but his was never a hot anger. It was a cold fury. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” He knew he was pushing, but punks infuriated Smoke. Especially one who walked around making the claim that he’d killed him.

  Jake walked closer, and Smoke knew then that Bonner was no gunfighter. No gunfighter wanted action this close up. The odds were too great that both men would take lead.

  “You’re a dead man, mister,” Jake hissed the words.

  “No,” Smoke said slowly. “But you’re sure a hurt one.” He backhanded Jake with a hard right that knocked the man spinning. Jake fell against a table, the table collapsed, and Jake landed on his butt on the floor in a state of confusion.

  Things weren’t supposed to work out this way. Every time he’d try to get up, the big stranger would knock him back down. Jake felt his lips pulp and knew he’d lost a couple of teeth. The big man hauled back a huge fist and busted Jake right on the nose. Jake screamed in pain as his beak busted and the blood poured. In a fog of hurt, Jake felt himself being jerked to his feet and hurled through the air. He crashed against a wall and the air left him.

  When Jake could catch his breath, he reached for his guns, but his holsters were empty. He blinked a couple of times and saw his guns, on the bar, in front of the big stranger. The stranger was calmly sipping at his whiskey.

  Smoke unloaded the matched .45s and lined up the cartridges on the bar. “Children shouldn’t play with guns,” he said. “You might hurt yourself, Booper.”

  “The name is Bonner,” Jake gasped.

  Smoke nodded gravely and finished his drink. “You all through trying to play tough boy, Bone-head?”

  Jake struggled to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. Then, with a curse, he reached behind him and jerked out a knife.

  “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” Smoke said.

  “Jake!” the faro dealer shouted. “Don’t do it, boy. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”

  Jake sneered at the dealer. Smoke stood facing the bar, both hands on the polished mahogany.

  “I’m gonna gut you like a fish, mister,” Jake panted, the blood dripping down from his busted nose and smashed lips.

  The batwings flipped open and a man wearing a star stood there. “Put it down, Jake,” he ordered. “Do it now, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Jake slowly lowered the knife. The Marshal walked around to face the young would-be tough. “What the hell ran over you, Jake? A beer wagon?”

  Jake refused to answer.

  “Put the knife up, Jake. Right now.”

  Jake sheathed the big blade and with something that sounded like a sob, abruptly turned and lurched from the saloon.

  “These are his guns, Marshal,” Smoke said. “I took the precaution of unloading them.”

  The marshal walked up to Smoke and the counterman placed a cup of coffee in front of him. “Jake’s a pretty salty type, mister. Not many men around here would have tried to disarm him.”

  “He’s a two-bit loudmouth,” Smoke replied. “Nothing more.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Smoke turned and walked out of the bar and into the dining area. He was seated and a menu was placed in front of him.

  The marshal was irritated and his face showed it. He turned to follow Smoke and the faro dealer said, “Leave him alone, Jeff. He’s a good, decent man who was pushed, that’s all. Believe me when I say that is the last man in the world you want to crowd.”

  “You know him, Sparks?”

  “I’ve seen him a time or two, yes. He just wants to have a meal and a good night’s sleep, that’s all.”

  Jeff thought for a moment, and then nodded. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. But you know Jake’s not gonna stand for this.”

  “His funeral, Marshal.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Smoke ate his meal and had coffee, then stepped out onto the porch for a cigarette and a breath of night air. He had not forgotten Jake Bonner. That would have been a very unwise thing to do. For the Jakes of this world, once humiliated, would never forgive or forget, and Smoke was careful of his back.

  He looked across the street and saw the marshal sitting on the boardwalk, watching him.

  The marshal knows Jake isn’t going to forget what happened in the saloon, he thought. And he’s thinking Jake just might decide to do something tonight.

  Smoke sat down in a chair that was shrouded in darkness and finished his cigarette. He was tired, but not sleepy. He knew he should go on up to his room and lie down, but he didn’t want to do that. He was more irritated than restless. He would have liked to walk the main street of the town. But to do that would only bring him trouble. Hell, he thought, sitting here will probably bring me trouble.

  In my own way, I am a prisoner.

  Come on, Jake, he reasoned, his thoughts suddenly savage. Come on. If you’re going to do something foolish, do it now and get it over with.

  The marshal stood up and walked to his office. He stood for a moment in the open door, then stepped inside and closed it behind him.

  I’m a stranger here, Smoke thought. I’d better have witnesses.

  He stood up and walked through the hotel lobby to the bar, a tall, well-dressed man in a tailored suit. In the saloon, he ordered coffee and stood by the bar, waiting for it to cool. The place was doing a brisk business. But when Smoke elected to stand at the bar, the long bar cleared, the men choosing tables instead.

  That amused Smoke, in a sour sort of way. He was conscious of the faro dealer watching him. I’ve seen that man somewhere down the line, Smoke thought.

  The batwings pushed open and Jake Bonner stood there, his bruised face swollen now. He’d found him more guns and his holsters were full.

  “I’m callin’ your hand, mister,” Jake said, his voice husky with emotion. “Now turn around and face me.”

  Smoke turned, brushing back his coat as he did. “Go home, Jake Bonner. There is no need for this.”

  “Do what he says, Jake,” the faro dealer called. “He’s giving you a chance to live. Take it.”

  “Shut up, gambler!” Jake yelled. “This ain’t none of your affair. I’m the man who killed Smoke Jensen. No two-bit stranger does to me what this one done.”

  “You didn’t kill Smoke Jensen, Jake,” the dealer said. “Smoke Jensen is standing in front of you.”

  The saloon became as hushed as a church. Jake’s face drained of blood and he stood pale and shaken.

  “Go home, Jake,” Smoke told him. “Go home and live. Don’t crowd me.”

  “Draw, damn you!” Jake screamed, and grabbed iron.

  Smoke’s draw was perfection, deadly beauty. As Jake’s hands closed around the butts of his guns, he felt a hammer blow in the center of his chest. He stumbled backward and fell against the wall, then slowly slid down to sit on the floor. His guns were still in leather.

  “No,” he said. “This ain’t … this ain’t right. This ain’t the way it’s suppose’ to be.”

  “But it is,” the faro dealer said.

  “You go to hell!” Jake Bonner screamed.

  It was the last thing he said.

  Smoke holstered his gun and stood by the bar. He picked up his coffee cup with his left hand and took a sip. Just right.

  “Jesus God!” a man breathed. “I seen it but I don’t believe it. It was a blur.
Hell, it wasn’t even that!”

  The marshal stepped in, gun drawn. He looked at Jake, then at Smoke, and holstered his .45. “I knew it was going to happen,” he said. “I thought about lockin’ Jake up until mornin’. Now I wish I had.”

  “Jake called him and drew first,” a man said. “Or tried to. That’s Smoke Jensen, Marshal.”

  “The poor dumb fool,” the marshal said. “Not you,” he was quick to add, looking at Smoke.

  “You have any questions for me?” Smoke asked.

  “Only one. When are you leavin’ town?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Good. Somebody get the undertaker and get Jake fitted for a box.” The marshal looked at Smoke. There were things he wanted to say, but he was wise enough not to say them. It wasn’t that he blamed Smoke, for he was sure that Smoke had been pushed into the fight. “Good night, Mister Jensen,” was all he had to say.

  Smoke nodded and left the room.

  He was gone before dawn the next morning.

  Three

  Smoke had a long ride ahead of him, but it was one he was looking forward to. He had wanted to provision up at the town that was now miles behind him, but felt it best to move on. There might be more like Jake Bonner in town.

  He shot a rabbit and had that for lunch, then caught several fish and had them for his dinner. The next day he rode up to an old trading post and after looking it over from a distance, decided to provision there. He stepped inside and knew immediately he had walked into some sort of disagreement. There were six men besides the owner in the dark and smoky room that served as a bar — cowboys, from the look of them. Three stood facing three, and their faces were dark with anger. The owner or manager or whatever the hell he was stood behind the rough plank bar.

  “Beans and bacon and flour and coffee,” Smoke said, walking up to the bar.

  “Mister, this ain’t a real good time for doin’ no grocery shoppin’,” the man told him.

  “It’s as good a time as any,” Smoke replied. “Fill the order.”

  “I reckon Dupree hired you, too, mister,” a cowboy said to Smoke.

  Smoke looked at him. “Nobody hired me to do anything. And I never heard of any Dupree. Just passin’ through is all. You boys carry on with your business and let me do mine.” His gaze returned to the man behind the bar. “And toss in a box of .44s while you’re at it.”

  One of the cowboys had looked out the window at Smoke’s horse. “I never seen that brand before.”

  “Now you have,” Smoke replied. “A can of peaches, too,” he added to his order. “You have any food cooked?”

  “Beans and beef,” the man said. “Mister, ride on. This ain’t no time for …”

  “Dish me up a plate of it. A big plate. I’m hungry.”

  “Are you hard of hearin’?” a cowboy asked. “You was told to ride on.”

  All in all, Smoke thought, this trip is turning out to be a disaster from the git-go. “Buddy, I don’t know what your problem is. But I do have a suggestion. Leave me the hell alone and stick to your own knittin’!”

  The cowboys, obviously working on opposite sides of the fence, and probably arguing over range or strayed beef or water rights, looked at one another and silently decided to band together against this stranger who it appeared was not taking either side very seriously.

  The bartender shoved a plate of food at the tall stranger and Smoke stood at the bar and went to eating, ignoring the cowboys.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all!” one said. “Just turns his back to us and starts feedin’ his face.”

  “Fill the order,” Smoke told the man behind the bar.

  The man sighed.

  “You fill that order, Smith,” a puncher said, “and you’ll get no more business from the Lazy J.”

  “And none from the Three Star,” the other side warned.

  “Fill the order,” Smoke told him.

  “Man,” the bartender said. “You have put me in one hell of a bind. You know that?”

  “It’s a free country,” Smoke told him. “If you don’t want to sell me the goods, then do so of your own choosing. Not because of threats from this bunch of saddlebums.”

  “Saddlebums!” one of the men shouted.

  Another walked to the bar and leaned against it, staring hard at Smoke. He took a closer look at the man nonchalantly eating his meal. Feller sure was big. He looked at the man’s wrists. Bigger than most men’s forearms. But he figured the six of them could handle him without much trouble.

  “Mister, I think we’ll just clean your clock.”

  Smoke turned and hit him with a left that seemed to come out of nowhere. The impact sounded like a melon hit with the flat side of an ax. The man’s boots flew out from under him and he was slammed to the floor, flat on his back. He did not move.

  “Now leave me the hell alone and let me finish my meal,” Smoke said, without looking at the remaining five.

  They looked back at him, then at the motionless puncher on the floor. One side of the man’s face was rapidly swelling and they knew his jaw was broken.

  One punch. One broken jaw. No one among them seemed especially eager to step up to the bar.

  “Close your mouth and fill my order,” Smoke told the man behind the bar.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said softly.

  “You as good with that gun as you are with your fists, mister?” a cowboy from the Lazy J asked.

  “Better,” Smoke told him.

  “You just might have to prove it,” he said.

  “Then that makes you short of sense,” Smoke replied. “I’m passing through, nothing more. You boys are on the prod, not me. You pushed me, not the other way around. Think about it.”

  The man on the floor still had not moved, except for his swelling jaw.

  “You got a name?”

  Smoke put down his fork and turned, facing the five. It was then that several of them noticed the hammer thong had been slipped from the big stranger’s six-gun. No one had seen him do it, so that meant it was done when his boots left the stirrups and hit the ground. All of them noticed that he was facing five-to-one odds and showing no fear, no excitement, nothing except dead calm.

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  The bartender slowly sank to the floor, behind a beer barrel. Somewhere within the confines of the trading post, a clock ticked loudly.

  Of the five punchers, one found his voice. “Feller down the way claims to have killed Jensen in Mexico.”

  “He lied. Jake Bonner is dead. I killed him night before last. I didn’t want to. But he crowded me. Just like you’re doing.”

  “I ain’t crowdin’ you,” a Three Star rider said. “I’m sittin’ down and stayin’ out of this.”

  “Me, too,” a Lazy J man said.

  “That makes three of us,” another one said.

  The men moved out of the line of fire and sat down and very carefully put their hands on the rough tabletop. It was by no means an act of cowardice. It was just showing exceptionally good sense.

  “Sit down, Luke,” one of the three said. “You, too, Shorty. This is stupid. The man ain’t done us no harm. I’m big enough to admit we was out of line and pushy.”

  “I ain’t takin’ water from no killer,” Luke said stubbornly.

  “Me, neither,” Shorty said. “And I ain’t real sure this is Smoke Jensen. I think he’s a tinhorn.”

  “I’ll turn around and finish my meal,” Smoke offered an honorable way out of a bad situation. “You boys sit down and have a beer on me. How about that?”

  “I say you go right straight to hell,” Shorty said, his voice thick.

  “It won’t be me who takes that trip today, boys,” Smoke told them. “Think about it.”

  “You can’t take both of us,” Luke bragged.

  “Yes, I can,” Smoke said quietly and surely. “But I don’t want to.”

  “Now I know he ain’t Smoke Jensen,” Shorty said. “He’s yeller.”

  T
he front door opened and two men stepped in. Both quickly sized up the situation.

  “Shorty,” one said. “Sit down.”

  “Luke,” the second man said. “You do the same. Right now.”

  “This tinhorn braced me, Boss,” Luke said.

  “No, he didn’t,” one of the men seated said. “We all started this. Dixie there,” he looked at the man on the floor, “he stuck his face in the stranger’s and got stretched out with one punch.”

  “This hombre says he’s Smoke Jensen, Boss,” Shorty said.

  The men, obviously the owners of the Lazy J and the Three Star, stepped between Smoke and the two riders. One faced the punchers, the other faced Smoke.

  “Is that right?” Smoke was asked.

  “That’s right. I came in here for a meal and supplies. Nothing more. And I’ll ride if given the chance. But no more mouth from your boys.”

  “We pay the men for work. What they do or say on their own time is their business.”

  “Then I hope you have room in your cemetery for two more.” Smoke was blunt.

  The bartender had stood up. “Jensen’s tellin’ the truth. He didn’t do nothin’ ’cept come in here and ask for supplies.”

  “I think you better ride,” the rancher facing Smoke said.

  “Is that an order?”

  The rancher’s smile was thin. “Just a suggestion, Mister Jensen.”

  Smoke nodded his head. “Sack up my supplies,” he told the man behind the bar. “And total up my bill. I’ll be moving along.”

  “Just like I said,” Shorty popped off. “Yeller.”

  The ranchers stepped out of the way. That was the final straw and they both knew it. No man would stand for that.

  Luke sat down.

  Smoke looked at Shorty. The man was scared and sweating. He had worked himself into a corner and didn’t know how to get out of it. Shorty was probably a pretty decent sort; it was not a crime to be young. Smoke took a chance and took a step toward the puncher.

  Shorty looked confused and stood a step back, bumping into a table. Smoke kept walking toward him.

  “Are you crazy?” Shorty said, a shrill sound to his words. “Hold up, man.”