Blood of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “You can believe that,” Smoke said, and opened fire without warning.

  The street was suddenly filled with rolling thunder, twelve rounds fired so close together it sounded like one long, ragged volley. Smoke jumped from the boardwalk and jerked his rifle from the saddle boot. But there was no one left standing in the street, only a bloody pile of dead and dying and badly wounded Triangle JB hands.

  Cooper and Ladd and Jenny stood in the store and stared open mouthed at the carnage before them. Smoke calmly punched out empties and reloaded, holstering his .44s. A half dozen men, all with guns in their hands, had come after Smoke Jensen. Only two would live past that bloody morning in Red Light, Montana. Dick Miles had taken a round in his rifle butt, the slug’s impact driving the stock into his belly and knocking the wind from him and putting him on the ground, otherwise unhurt. His ridin’ buddy, Highpockets Rycroft, was only slightly wounded. But neither of them wanted any more of Smoke Jensen on this day.

  A doctor ran out into the street and began ministering to the wounded as best he could, but their wounds were fearsome ones, all belly and chest shots.

  Dick struggled up on one elbow. “You won’t get away with this, Jensen,” he called. “This is one time when your fancy name don’t mean nothin’ to nobody.”

  “Yeah?” Smoke said. “Why don’t you carve that on the tombstones of your buddies?”

  “I tell you, boys,” Cooper said, relating the day’s events to the crew, “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it in my life. Smoke just walks out on the boardwalk, says, ‘Is it a good day to die, boys?’ and started tossin’ lead.”

  “That’s the only way to do it,” Van Horn said. “If you know somebody’s comin’ after you, don’t give ’em no breaks. Just plug ’em.

  “I wish I’d a seen it!” Jimmy said, sitting wide-eyed on his bunk.

  “You’ll see a lot more than that ’fore this battle’s done, son,” Van Horn promised. “Jack Biggers will pull out all the stops now. He don’t have no choice in the matter. This is gonna be a fight to the finish, and Smoke knew it today. That’s why he done what he done.”

  “Well,” Wolf Purcell said, rising up from his bunk. “That’s four gunhands we won’t have to deal with. Let’s go have some of Miss Jenny’s grub. I’m hongry.”

  Jack Biggers couldn’t believe his eyes or ears. Four of his best men had been brought back to the ranch tied across their saddles. Dick was out of it for a few days because of a horribly bruised stomach, and Highpockets had lost the use of his left arm for a time.

  “Jensen just opened fire?” the rancher asked. “He just started shooting? Why, that’s against the law!”

  The two survivors exchanged glances at that comment. “He asked us if it was a good day to die, and started shootin’,” Dick said.

  “I don’t think any of us even got off a shot,” Highpockets admitted. “I never heard a man work no .44s like that. This wasn’t no fast draw. Jensen had his hands full of iron when he stepped out of the store. And I never in my life seen no man that rattlesnake cold.”

  “Oh, I have,” Biggers said. “I know several of them. I’ll send a wire and have them here within a week. If this is the way Jensen wants to play it, I’m just the man to show him a thing or two.”

  The two toughs again exchanged glances. Maybe so, maybe not, they were thinking. But you might change your mind if you ever see Jensen in action.

  “I’ll have that girl’s spread,” Biggers said, after shouting for a rider to get the hell over to the house. “And I’ll have it soon.”

  Highpockets thought: I wouldn’t count on that, was I you. I really wouldn’t.

  Sally rode into town, accompanied by three Pinkertons who looked as though they would relish the idea of a little trouble, just to liven things up. No one bothered them, for the word had spread from track’s end.

  Deputy Brandt called for Club as soon as he saw the three men and one woman ride in.

  “Leave them alone,” Club said. “Trouble with Pinks is the last thing we want.” His eyes appraised Sally as she swung down from the saddle. Quite a looker, he thought. But something told him that Smoke Jensen’s wife would be just about as tough to handle as Jensen himself. Sally was one hundred percent a lady, Club had no doubts about that. It was evident in her bearing. But she also had a pistol strapped around her waist and a short-barreled carbine shoved down in a saddle boot. Club had no doubts as to her ability, and willingness, to use both weapons. Club decided to play the gentleman. He walked over to the group and introduced himself, being sure to take off his hat.

  “If I may be so bold, ma’am,” Club said. “Are you Mrs. Jensen?”

  Sally turned to put cool eyes on him. She was a lovely lady, Club thought again, and she sure do fill out them jeans. But them eyes is remindful of the eyes of Smoke Jensen. This woman would kill a man just about as quick as her husband would. Biggers, he mused, you better back off and rethink your plans. All of you better do that.

  “I am,” Sally said.

  “I’m Sheriff Bowers, ma’am. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. The Circle Cherry is just a few miles outside of town. That’s where your husband is. Take the right fork at the end of town and you’ll ride right to it.”

  “The Circle … Cherry?” Sally gasped.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Club replied. “Like the little fruit with a circle around it. It’s kind of an … unusual brand.”

  “I saw the Golden Cherry riding in.”

  “Ah … yes, ma’am. But that’s something that’s not fitten for a man to discuss with a good woman.”

  “You mean it’s a whorehouse, don’t you?” Sally laid it out bluntly.

  The three Pinks all looked everywhere except at Sally. The blue of the sky suddenly held a lot of interest for them. Club had not blushed since childhood. But blush he did now. “Ah … yes, ma’am. You are certainly right about that.”

  The mayor, Fat Fosburn, walked up to take a better look at this beautiful woman dressed in men’s britches.

  “Mayor,” Club was quick, “this is Smoke Jensen’s wife.”

  Fat looked first at Sally, then at the three heavily armed men with her, and then swept off his hat.

  “My escorts,” Sally said, lifting a gloved hand toward the Pinks.

  “Gentlemen,” Fat acknowledged.

  “We’d better be riding, Miss Sally,” one of the Pinks said.

  “Yes,” Sally said. She nodded at Club and Fat and swung into the saddle. Looking down at them, she said, “I’m certain we’ll be seeing each other again. My husband and I plan on spending a great deal of time around here. Good day, gentlemen.” She lifted the reins and was gone down the street.

  “It just keeps gettin’ worser and worser,” Club said glumly.

  “It’s a game to Jensen,” Fat said. “He’s played this out before. I know about Sally Jensen. Comes from one of the wealthiest families in New England. Railroads and banks and newspapers and all sorts of businesses. She could buy this whole damn town if she wanted to. She could have a hundred of them damn Pinks in here if she wanted to. Five hundred of them. Send one of your men with a message to Biggers and Cosgrove. We’ve got to have a meeting. Tonight. At my place. What started out as something simple has suddenly become very complicated.”

  “It might be too late to stop it,” Club said, nodding his head toward two men riding slowly into town.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yonder comes Whisperin’ Langley and Patmos. Biggers told me he was hirin’ him some guns.”

  “All hell’s fixin’ to break loose around here,” Fat said.

  “Yeah,” Club said. “Everything’s complete now.”

  Fat looked at him.

  “The Devil’s already here. His name is Smoke Jensen.”

  Nine

  Sally and Jenny hit it off immediately and before the afternoon was over, they were good friends. The Pinks stayed the night and were gone the next day. One more hand was hired, a quiet man in his late forties
or early fifties who came riding up. Van Horn had hired him on the spot.

  “Name’s Barrie,” Van Horn said. “I hadn’t seen him in years. Used to be a town-tamer down in the southwest.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Smoke said. “I thought he was dead.”

  “Nope. He just got tired of it. But he’s pure hell with that .45. He’s a cowboy at heart. I heard that there was a big meetin’ at Fat’s house night before last,” Van Horn abruptly changed the subject. “I got me two, three sources in town. Club Bowers wanted Cosgrove and Biggers to back off and leave us alone. But they wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “What’s so special about this ranch, Van Horn?”

  “That’s a good question, Smoke. There sure ain’t no gold. It’s up yonder in the mountains. It boils down to greed, I reckon. Pure and simple. But it ain’t just the ranch. Red Light will boom for six months, a year, maybe two years. Then it will quiet down or just maybe die out, like a lot of other gold and silver towns out here. They just want it ’cause it’s here and they can’t have it. Then, too, as long as the town booms, the, ah, house of ill repute and the saloon will bring in tubfuls of money from the miners.”

  Smoke had arranged with the local banker to make sure that Jenny’s money was deposited daily from the “businesses” in town. And even though Cosgrove owned the bank, he knew better than to dicker around with the girl’s money. With Sally now in town, and being from one of the oldest and most respected banking families in all the nation, Jenny could consider her money as secure as if it had been surrounded by a division of armed guards. Cosgrove was wealthy, but he knew that Sally Jensen could have him ruined with no more than a stroke of a pen. And he also knew that she would not hesitate to do so. All parties aligned with Major Cosgrove were in a bit of a quandary. Biggers had arranged for hired guns to come in, over the objections of Sheriff Bowers and Fat Fosburn. But so far, Smoke had not left the ranch since his wife had arrived. And attacking the ranch was not in anyone’s plans … yet.

  “We’re bein’ watched,” Van Horn said, as the men leaned against the corral railing and smoked.

  “Yes. I know. I plan on doing a little hunting tonight. Pull all the boys in and keep them close until I get back.”

  “You goin’ alone?”

  “All by myself.”

  Just as it was getting dark, Smoke stepped out of the rear of the house after kissing Sally goodnight. He was dressed all in black, with moccasins on his feet and a dark bandanna tied around his head. He carried a length of rope wound across his chest, and precut lengths of rawhide tucked behind his belt. He carried no rifle, just his six-guns and a knife.

  “Don’t wait up for me, Sally,” he spoke from the darkness of the backyard.

  “I won’t. But I’ll leave coffee on the stove for you.”

  “And a piece of pie, too.”

  “Maybe. You’re getting a little chubby around the middle.”

  Smoke chuckled. There wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on him, but that was a standing joke between them. Smoke disappeared into the gloom of early night.

  “Don’t you worry about him, Aunt Sally?” Jenny questioned.

  “No. I’ll worry about him if he starts visiting that whorehouse in town.”

  The teenager giggled. She knew there was no danger of her Uncle Smoke ever doing that. Sally and Smoke were in love, and it was evident to anyone with eyes.

  “Times are slowly changing out here, Jenny,” Sally told the girl, as she cut slices of pie and placed them on the table for any hands who might want a late snack, and they all would. Then she covered a platter of doughnuts with a cloth. She placed both on a counter by the back door so the cowboys could find them without waking the whole house. “But for now, in many areas, the lawless rule. Men like Smoke are the only thing that stands between those who would obey the law, and those who would make a mockery of it and stamp on the rights of the just and the decent.”

  “It’s changing back east.”

  “That is one of the reasons why I left. It isn’t changing for the better. People will tell you it is, but it isn’t. Instead of the lawless being put in an early grave, many courts are now handing down very light sentences and the criminal element is back on the street within a year or two. And most of them are just as savage, or more so, than when they went behind bars. Prisons without adequate rehabilitation facilities are no more than a college for the lawless. And it will worsen, Jenny. Even my own family, who, even though they are bankers and monied people, are champions of the downtrodden, agree with that. I shudder to think what it will be like for our great-grandchildren.”

  “What is Uncle Smoke going to do out there tonight, Aunt Sally?”

  Sally smiled and put up the dish that Jenny had just dried and handed to her. “I suspect he’s going to make life miserable for those working against you, Jenny.”

  “Kill them?”

  Sally shook her head. “Not unless they get hostile with him. Those men in town approached him — us — with drawn guns in their hands. Their intentions were perfectly clear. Tonight is different.” Again, she smiled. “To Smoke, it will be fun. To those spying on us here at the ranch, it will not be fun.”

  The gun-for-hire, who had hired on with Jack Biggers’ Triangle JB, felt himself suddenly jerked from the saddle and thrown hard to the ground. He landed on his belly and the air whooshed from him, rendering him, for a moment, unable to move. A gag was tied around his mouth and his hands were tightly bound behind him by what he assumed, correctly, was rawhide. Then someone possessing enormous strength picked him up and toted him off like a sack of grain. A few hundred yards later, he was dumped to the ground, on his butt, his back to a tree.

  “Shake your head for no, nod your head for yes,” the big man said softly. “Do you understand?”

  The gunhand nodded quickly.

  “In a moment I’ll remove the gag and you can whisper. Do you know what I’ll do if you yell?”

  The gunhand again nodded. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a pretty good idea.

  Smoke asked him a few more simple questions and then removed the gag. The hand spat a time or two and then looked at the bulk of the man squatting before him in the darkness. No doubt in his mind who this was. Jesus, the guy was big.

  “How much is Biggers paying you?”

  “Seventy-five dollars a month,” the hand whispered.

  “That’s a lot of money to wage war against a seventeen-year-old girl.”

  “Seventeen?”

  “Yes. My niece, Jenny. She’s seventeen. You must be real brave to want to kill a young girl.”

  “I don’t want to kill any kid!” the hand protested. “Nobody said nothin’ to me about no kid.”

  “Who did you think you were fighting?”

  “You. If you’re Smoke Jensen.”

  “I am. But why are you fighting me? What have I done to you?”

  The question seemed to confuse the hand. “Well … I guess nothin’. Except you’re squattin’ on land that belongs to Jack Biggers.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now let me tell you the truth. My sister died. She owned this spread, all legal and proper. She left it all to her daughter, Jenny. I’m here to see that Jenny keeps it. That’s the top, bottom, and middle of it all. You ever heard of a man named Wolf Par-cell?”

  “Who hasn’t? Mean old bastard. He’d as soon shoot a man as look at him.”

  “That’s him. He works for me. You ever heard of a man named Barrie? B-A-R-R-I-E.”

  “Hell, yes. Town-tamer from down in the southwest.”

  “He works for me, too. There’s an old gunfighter called Van Horn. Ever heard of him?”

  “He’s near abouts as famous as you.”

  “Well, he’s foreman of my niece’s spread. How about a breed called Bad Dog?”

  “Sure. Don’t tell me he’s workin’ for you, too?”

  “Yes, he is. Now, you’re not a real gunslick. You’re a cowboy drawi
ng fighting wages. Have I got you pegged right?”

  “You have. I ain’t no fast gun. I just ride for the brand.”

  “How many more like you over on the JB?”

  “Maybe … four or five. The rest of them comin’ in are hired guns, some of them out-and-out killers. Back-shooters. They damn sure ain’t cowboys.”

  “Name them.”

  “Patmos. Val Davis. Dusty Higgens. Bearden. Whisperin’ Langley. Ned Harden. Kit Silver. I damn shore ain’t in their class. I damn shore don’t wanna be.”

  “You know a man name of Will Pennington, down in Wyoming?”

  “Heard of him. Runs the Box WP.”

  “That’s him. He’s hiring men. You and your buddies pull out and ride down there. Tell him I recommended you. Do that, or stay here and die. What’s it going to be?”

  “I’m gone first light. But I ain’t alone out here this night, Mister Smoke. There’s others that I don’t know their names. Just Jack and Paul and Red and Blackie and so forth. But they ain’t punchers, I can tell you that.”

  “Known guns?”

  “They think they are.”

  Smoke untied the man and helped him to his feet. He gave him back his gun. The cowboy looked at it, then grinned and slipped it into his holster. “I never was worth a damn with it noways. As soon as the main house goes dark, me and the others will be gone to Wyoming, Smoke. Much obliged.”

  “Take off and good trip.”

  “They’re waitin’ on you, Smoke.”

  “Good. I sure wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

  Smoke waited for a full sixty count after the hand had gone. Then he began following the wide creek toward the south end of the spread. He felt sure the hand would leave as he said he would. Smoke wanted no innocent to be caught up in this battle, and a battle it was about to become. He also had him a hunch that when the cowboy he’d talked to laid it on the line to his friends, they would all soon be gone. Since it was near the first of the month, they had been paid, so there was nothing to keep them around.

  He saw his second rider of the evening over on the other side of the wide creek. In some parts of the country, it would be called a river. Smoke picked up a rock and gave it a chunk, the stone hitting the horse on the rump and frightening it. The horse reared up suddenly and started bucking. The rider fought to stay in the saddle. While he was bucked and jumping and snorting, Smoke crossed the creek and knelt about thirty feet from the horse and rider. Then Smoke coughed like a puma and the horse had had quite enough of that area. He put his rider on the ground and took off.