Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Smoke kept walking.

  The others in the room wondered what in hell Jensen was up to.

  Smoke walked right up to Shorty and jerked his six-shooter from leather. He tossed the gun to a puncher seated at a table. The puncher caught the .45 and held it like he was holding a lighted stick of dynamite.

  “Sit down, Shorty,” Smoke said. “And I’ll buy you a drink. The trouble is over.”

  Shorty sat, then looked up at the man. “That took guts, Mister Jensen. I acted the fool.”

  “We all do from time to time. You sure don’t hold a corner on the market.”

  Smoke walked the room, introducing himself and shaking hands with all the men. Whatever friction might have been between the punchers had vanished. The men had gotten Dixie to his boots and the man wobbled over to the table and sat down. Turned out his jaw wasn’t broken, but it damn sure was badly bent.

  “I had a mule kick me one time wasn’t that hard,” Dixie mush-mouthed.

  The ranchers sent their men back to home range and they sat and had coffee with Smoke.

  “So Jake Bonner finally got himself six feet,” Three Star said. “It’s overdue.”

  Lazy J said, “You lookin’ for land up this way, Smoke?”

  “No. I’m heading for a place called Red Light. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “It’s a damn good place to stay away from,” Three Star replied. “It’s a den of snakes and they’re all poison.”

  “It’s a hard four-day ride from here,” the other rancher said. “Figure on six unless you want to wear your horse out. But,” he added with a smile, “if that’s your buckskin out yonder, it don’t look like he ever gets tired.”

  “He’s a good one,” Smoke acknowledged. “And the best bodyguard I ever had.”

  “I can believe that. He gave me a look that caused me to give him a wide berth,” the rancher said. “Thanks for givin’ Shorty a break. He’s a good boy, but hot-headed. This might cool him down some.”

  The men chatted for a time, the ranchers telling Smoke the best way up to the rip-roaring mining town of Red Light, and then Smoke packed his supplies and rode north.

  “I always figured Smoke Jensen for a much older man,” one rancher said.

  The other one bit off a chew and replied, “Killed his first man when he was about fourteen. Then he dropped out of sight for a few years. Raised by mountain men. Ol’ Preacher took him under his wing. When Jensen surfaced a few years later, he was pure hell on wheels with a gun. Nice feller once you get to know him.”

  The West was being settled and tamed slowly, but it was getting there. Smoke avoided the many little towns and settlements that were cropping up all over the place. Most would be gone in a few years, some would prosper and grow.

  At the end of the third day, Smoke was beginning to feel a little gamy and wanted a hot bath, a bed with clean sheets, and a meal that someone else had cooked. He topped a ridge and looked down at a small six-store town, about a dozen homes scattered around the short main street. He rode slowly down the rutted road. As he entered the town he was conscious of the eyes on him. He swung down in front of the livery and told the man he’d stall and curry Buck himself.

  “I damn sure wouldn’t touch that hoss,” the liveryman said. “That beast has got a wicked look in his eyes.”

  “Gentle as a kitten,” Smoke said.

  “What kind of a kitten?” the man asked. “A puma?”

  Smoke smiled and spent the next few minutes taking care of Buck while the big horse chomped away at grain.

  Taking his kit and his rifle, Smoke walked across the street to the combination saloon, cafe, and hotel. It was mid-afternoon and the town was quiet. He registered as K. Jensen and went to his room. Taking fresh clothing, he walked to the barbershop and ordered hot water for the tub while he had himself a shave.

  “Passin’ through?” the barber inquired.

  “Yup,” Smoke told him. “Seeing the country. Thought I’d head up to Red Light and see what’s up there.”

  “Trouble,” the barber was blunt. “That’s a bad place to head for, mister.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re a hard day and a half from Red Light. Over the mountains. Used to be a decent place. Lots of small miners. Then Major Cosgrove moved in with his pack of trouble-hunters and before you knew what had happened, he owned the whole kit and caboodle. Them that tried to hold on to their claims suddenly got seriously dead. They tried to get their dust out, and they was robbed. I ran a shop up there for a few years. I made good money, but man, it got chancy, so I pulled out and settled here. The money ain’t so good, but the peace is nice. Except when Red Lee and his boys come to town.”

  “Red Lee?”

  “Owns a ranch east of here. Likes to think he owns everybody around here, too. Know the type?”

  “Sure.”

  “A couple of his boys is over to the saloon now. You’d best walk light around them. They like to start trouble, and they fancy themselves gunslicks.”

  “I’ll certainly take that under advisement,” Smoke said.

  He bathed carefully and then ordered more hot water to rinse off in. Dressed in clean clothes, while his others were being laundered, Smoke walked back to the hotel and into the saloon for a whiskey to cut the trail dust. It was just a little early for supper.

  He ignored the three men sitting at a table and walked to the bar. But he immediately pegged the men as rowdies and trouble-hunters. Nowhere had he seen any sign of a marshal or a marshal’s office in the small town.

  Smoke was beginning to have bad feelings about this trip. All he’d set out to do was settle his dead sister’s affairs, and so far all he’d had was trouble. He really wished he was back on the Sugarloaf, with Sally.

  “Whiskey,” he told the bartender. “From the good bottle.”

  “Well, now,” one of the rowdies said. “Looks like we got us a dandy come to town, boys. From the good bottle,” he mimicked mockingly.

  Smoke looked at the bartender as he poured the whiskey. There were warning signs in the man’s eyes, but Smoke ignored them. He was tired from the trail, wanting only a drink, a hot meal, and a warm bed. He was in no mood to be pushed around by the likes of those at the table.

  He despised that type of man and always had. He’d helped Sheriff Monte Carson run more than one of ’em out of town, and he’d personally killed his share of ’em over the years. They were, as the good folks in the Deep South called them, white trash.

  Smoke took a sip of his whiskey and carefully sat the glass down. He turned to face the men. “You have a problem with that, loudmouth?”

  The men fell silent, their mocking smiles suddenly gone from their faces. The bartender moved back, away from the tall stranger. Two locals at a table looked at each other and wished they were somewhere else.

  “Are you talkin’ to us, mister?” one of the trio said.

  “I don’t see anyone else in the room who stuck his lip into my business.”

  “You just bought yourself a whole mess of trouble, mister,” another of the three said.

  “You got it to do,” Smoke told him. “Fists or guns. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. Step up here and toe the mark.”

  Four

  The three looked at each other and smiled. “You know who you’re about to tangle with, drifter?” one asked.

  “Three braying jackasses.”

  The men flushed as anger overtook them. “You want him, Carl?” one asked.

  “Let’s put a rope on him and drag him,” another suggested.

  “Fine idea, Shell.”

  Smoke looked at the third man. “You have a name, or did your mother just throw you out with the garbage and forget about you?”

  “Why, you! … Yeah, I got a name. Ned.”

  “Well, come on, Ned. Don’t be shy.”

  The men again exchanged glances. They’d been riding roughshod over people for years. At no time had they ever run up on anybody li
ke this tall stranger.

  The locals were doing their best to hide their smiles. And it did not go unnoticed by the three rowdies.

  “You think it’s funny now, citizens,” Shell told them. “But when we finish with this yahoo, we’ll settle your hash, too.”

  “You won’t be able to do anything in about five minutes,” Smoke told him. “None of you. Now either shut your damn mouths or step up here. What’s it going to be?”

  Ned cussed and walked up to the bar. Smoke hit him in mid-stride, his left boot still off the floor in a half-step. Smoke hit him with a solid left that pulped the man’s lips and knocked him flat on his butt on the floor.

  Shell and Carl rushed him. Smoke turned, picked up a chair, and splintered it across Shell’s face. The blood flew and Shell joined Ned on the floor.

  Carl’s eyes widened and he did some fast back pedaling, but it was too late. Smoke stepped in and began hammering at the man with both fists, the lefts and rights landing like small bombs, and sounding like them.

  Carl swung a wild blow and Smoke grabbed the man’s forearm and tossed him over the bar. He landed on the ledge amid dozens of bottles of whiskey. The mirror jarred free of its braces and fell on him, shattering in hundreds of pieces. Ned was staggering to his feet just as Smoke grabbed him by the neck and the seat of his jeans and propelled him toward one of the big front windows. Ned started hollering as soon as he realized what Smoke had in mind. His bellering was cut short as Smoke tossed him through the window. Ned sailed over the warped boardwalk and impacted against and wrapped around a hitchrail. Ned did a little acrobatics around and around the rail and landed on his back in the street, the wind knocked from him.

  Carl was staggering around behind the bar, trying to figure out what had happened. Smoke cleared it all up real quick by grabbing the man by the bandanna and brutally hauling him over the bar. Carl’s eyes were bugged out and he was making choking sounds. Smoke began spinning him around and around in a circle, Carl impacting with tables and chairs and knocking them in all directions. Smoke released his hold on the bandanna and Carl went sailing across the room, right through the second large window and out into the street. Carl was thrown up against a horse and the animal reared in fright and kicked out with its hind legs. The steel-shod hooves caught Carl right in the butt and the would-be tough went sailing across the street. He landed on his face in the dirt, out cold.

  The citizens in the saloon were enjoying every minute of it, wide eyed and smiling.

  “Oh, hell!” Shell said, getting to his feet and facing a mean-eyed Smoke Jensen.

  Smoke smiled at him and then reared back. Shell bounced off a wall and very unwillingly came toward Smoke. Smoke stepped to one side, grabbed the man in the very same manner he’d done with Ned, and threw him out into the street. Shell landed in a horse trough and wisely decided to stay there.

  A very startled Red Lee and his foreman had just ridden up and stared in amazement at the sight before them.

  “Who is that out there?” Smoke asked the locals who were still sitting at a table.

  “Red Lee and Jim Sloane,” he was told. “Big rancher and his foreman.”

  “Is that right?” Smoke said. He found his whiskey, downed what remained of it, and walked out to the boardwalk, using the batwings, about all that was still intact at the front of the saloon.

  Smoke stood on the boardwalk and looked at the two men for a few seconds. The big, rough-looking man with red hair returned the stare.

  “I suppose you’re Red Lee,” Smoke said.

  “That’s right. What the hell is going on around here?”

  “Some of your boys decided to get lippy. One of their suggestions was to rope and drag me. I didn’t like the idea.”

  “Damn shore didn’t,” Shell muttered from the water trough. “It was a really bad idea.”

  “Shut up,” Red told him. He returned his gaze to Smoke.

  Smoke said, “You obviously enjoy the notion of your hands riding roughshod over people. So that makes you responsible for whatever happens. The saloon needs to be swept out and straightened up. You do it.”

  The whole town had turned out. At least thirty-five people now stood on the boardwalk, silent and listening and watching.

  Red’s expression was priceless. It took him a moment to find his voice. “You want me to do what?”

  “Swamp out the saloon.”

  “When Hell freezes over,” Red said.

  “Oh, it’ll be before then.” Smoke’s hand flashed and his .44 came out spitting fire and lead. The bullets howled and screamed around the hooves of Red’s horse. The animal panicked and reared up, dumping Red on his butt in the street. The foreman was frantically fighting to get his own horse under control.

  Smoke could move with deceptive speed for a man of his size. He was off the boardwalk and in the street in the blink of an eye. He jerked the foreman out of the saddle and threw him down in the dirt on his belly, momentarily addling the man. He turned and planted a big fist smack on the side of Red’s jaw. The rancher went down like a brick.

  Smoke jerked their guns from leather and tucked them behind his own belt. Jim got to his boots just in time to feel a hard hand gripping his neck and another hand gathering up denim at the seat of his pants. The foreman felt himself propelled out of the street, up on the boardwalk and then through the broken window. He slid on his face for a few feet before his face came to rest against a full cuspidor.

  Jim looked up to see his boss come sailing through the other broken window. Red Lee landed hard on his belly and slid a couple of yards, coming to an abrupt halt when his head banged against the front of the bar.

  The bartender had long since exited out the back door and hastily beat it over to the barbershop. He and barber were standing by the front window, watching.

  “Who is that man?” the bartender asked.

  “Damned if I know,” the barber replied. “But he’s sure a one-man wreckin’ crew.”

  Over at the saloon, the bulk of Smoke Jensen filled the pushed-open batwings. His hands were filled with guns taken from the still addled hands of Red Lee. “Find some brooms and dustpans,” he told the men on the floor. “And get busy.”

  “You’re a dead man,” Red Lee said, his voice harsh and filled with hatred.

  Smoke tossed him a pistol. The six-shooter landed on the floor, inches from the rancher.

  “You want to try your luck, be my guest,” Smoke told him.

  Outside, Ned had climbed out of the water trough and was slopping around. The liveryman ran over and whispered in his ear, and Ned damn near fainted. He squished up to the boardwalk and over to a busted window.

  “Boss? Dyer just read the brand on that stranger’s horse. “That’s Smoke Jensen, Boss.”

  The saloon had never been so clean. Ned, Shell, and Carl pitched in and the five of them worked at it until it shone. Smoke sat at a corner table and ate supper while the men worked.

  “I’ll be back through here from time to time,” Smoke said, having no intention of ever returning to this town. “Chances are you won’t know I’m around, but I will be. If I hear of you or your men ever crowding another citizen or drifter, I’ll hunt you down and kill you, Red.”

  “This wasn’t none of your affair, Jensen,” Red said sullenly, pushing a broom across the floor.

  “Not until your men started crowding me. That made it personal.”

  “They was just havin’ fun.”

  “I didn’t see the humor in it.”

  Other area ranchers and farmers had drifted in and were enjoying the scene. The saloon was nearly full. Red and his men had been throwing their weight around for years, and payback time was long overdue and much appreciated.

  Smoke was under no illusions about what Red was going to do. Just as soon as Red got a chance, he was going to try to kill him. Ned and Shell and Carl were cowboys, not fast guns. They rode for a rough brand, but they were not killers.

  But Jim Sloane was another matter. Smoke felt h
e would side with his boss when it came down to the nut-cuttin’.

  Red finally threw down his broom and turned to face Smoke. “That’s it, Jensen. No more.”

  “Your choice,” Smoke told him, a fresh pot of coffee on the table before him.

  “You’d kill me over a bunch of people you never laid eyes on before today?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “That don’t answer my question.”

  “You figure it out.”

  “I come in here first, Jensen. I fought …”

  “I don’t want to hear that crap!” Smoke said harshly. “I’m sick of hearing it from men like you. Yes, you fought Indians and outlaws. Yes, you settled this land. But it’s 1883 now. And time has passed you by. The old ways are all but gone. It won’t be long before this territory will become a state. With a state militia and maybe even a state police force. You think they’ll put up with the crap you’ve been pulling? The answer is no, they won’t. Look around you, Red.”

  Red did, and saw a half a dozen ranchers and their foremen, all armed, all staring back at him. Suddenly, all because of one man, Red knew his days of beings top dog were over. The people had become united against him. And he hated Smoke Jensen for that.

  “You still lookin’ for hands out at your spread, Mister Jackson?” Shell asked a rancher.

  “Still lookin’, Shell. You interested?”

  “I sure am.”

  “Me, too,” Ned said.

  “And me,” Carl was quick to add.

  “You’re all hired.”

  “You yellow bastards!” Red told his former riders.

  “You’d best watch your mouth, Mister Lee,” Shell told the man. “You can insult me all you like, but leave my family out of it.” He looked at his friends. “Let’s get our gear from the ranch. See you ’bout dark, Mister Jackson.”

  “The grub will be hot and waitin’ on you, boys.”

  The three punchers left the saloon … after nodding respectfully at Smoke.

  Red Lee cursed the men until they were out of sight. Smoke waited, well aware that the man was hovering near the breaking point.

  “Go home, Red,” another rancher told the man. “Go home and cool off.”