Live by the West, Die by the West

by William W. Johnstone

  Silver Jim stalked up the boardwalk, holding his matched set of Remington .44s, looking for No-Count George Victor. Hardrock was by his side, his hands gripping the butts of his guns, his eyes searching for Three-Fingers Kerman and his buddy, Fulton. Pistol had gone looking for Peck and Nappy.

  The Sabler brothers, Ben, Carl, and Delmar, were waiting at the edge of town, waiting for Lujan.

  Diego, Pablo, and a gunfighter called Hazzard were waiting to try Smoke.

  Twenty or more gunslicks had already hauled their ashes out of town. They had realized what the townspeople already knew: nobody hog-ties and trees a western town.

  The Larado Kid had teamed up with several more punks, including Johnny and his buddy, Bret, and the backshooter, Danny Rouge. They had turned tail and galloped out of town. There would be another day. There always was. Besides, Johnny had him a plan. He wanted to kill Smoke Jensen. And he knew this fight was just about over. Smoke would be heading home. And a lot could happen between Montana and Colorado.

  “No-Count!” Silver Jim yelled, his voice carrying over the din of battle, the screaming of the wounded, and the sounds of panicked horses.

  No-Count whirled around, his hands full of pistols. Silver Jim drew and fired as smoothly as he had forty years back, when he had cut the flap off a soldier’s holster and tied it down.

  Both the old gunfighter’s slugs struck true and No-Count squatted down in the muddy alley, dropped his pistols, and fell over face-first in the mud.

  Hardrock felt a numbing blow striking him in the shoulder, staggering him. He turned, falling back up against a building front, his right-hand gun coming up, his thumb and trigger finger working as partners, rolling thunder from the muzzle.

  Three-Finger Kerman went down, the front of his shirt stained with blood. Fulton fired at Hardrock and missed. Hardrock grinned at the outlaw and didn’t miss.

  Pistol Le Roux rounded a corner and came face-to-face with Peck and Nappy. Pistol’s guns spat fire and death before the two so-called badmen could react. Pistol looked down at the dead and damned.

  “Pikers!” he snorted, then turned and walked into one of the new saloons, called the Pink Puma, and drew himself a cool one from the deserted bar. He could sense the fight was over. He had already seen Dad Estes and his gang hightail it out of town.

  Damn! but he hated that about Charlie. Him and Charlie had been buddies for nigh on . . . Hell, he couldn’t remember how many years.

  He drew himself another beer, sat down, and propped his boots up. It could be, he mused, he was getting just too old for this type of nonsense.

  Naw! he concluded. He looked up as Hardrock came staggering in, trailed by Silver Jim.

  “What the hell happened to you, you old buzzard?” he asked Hardrock.

  “Caught one, you jackass!” Hardrock snapped. “What’s it look like—I been pickin’ petunias?”

  “Wal, sit down.” He shoved out a chair. “I’ll fetch you a beer and then try to find the doctor. If I don’t, you’ll probably whine and moan the rest of the day.” He took his knife and cut away Hardrock’s shirt. “Bullet went clear through.” He got Hardrock a beer and picked up a bottle of whiskey. “This is gonna hurt you a lot more than it is me,” he warned.

  Hardrock glared at him.

  Pistol poured some whiskey on the wounds, entrance and exit, and took a reasonably clean bar towel that Silver Jim handed him and made a bandage.

  “You’ll keep. Drink your beer.”

  * * *

  “Make your play, gentlemen,” Lujan told the Sabler brothers.

  Parnell stood by Lujan’s side, smiling faintly.

  The sounds of battle had all but ceased.

  The Sablers grabbed for iron.

  Lujan’s guns roared just a split second before Parnell’s blasters boomed, sending out their lethal charges. In the distance, a bugle sounded. Someone shouted, “The Army’s here!”

  Ben, Carl, and Delmar Sabler lay on the muddy bloody ground. Ben and Carl had taken slugs from Lujan. Delmar had taken a double dose from Parnell’s blasters. He was almost torn in half.

  Lujan holstered his guns and held out his hand. “My friend, you can stand shoulder to shoulder with me anytime you like. You are truly a man!”

  Parnell blushed.

  “Thank you, Lujan.” He shook the hand.

  “Come on, amigo. Let’s go have us a . . . sarsaparilla.”

  THIRTY

  The commander of the Army contingent, a Captain Morrison, met with Cord, Smoke, and a few others in what was left of the Hangout, while the undertaker and his helper roamed among the carnage.

  “A lot of bad ones got away,” Smoke told the young captain. Smoke’s shirt was stiff from sweat and dirt and blood. “I expect I’ll meet up with some of them on the trail home.”

  “Are you really Smoke Jensen?” The captain was clearly in awe.

  “Yes.”

  Horace’s photographer popped another shot.

  The captain sighed. “Well, gentlemen. This is not an Army matter. I will take a report, certainly, and have it sent to the sheriff. But I imagine it will end there. I’m new to the West; just finished an assignment in Washington. But during my short time here, I have found that western justice is usually very short and very final.”

  “I don’t understand part of what you just said,” Cord leaned forward. “You mean you weren’t sent in here?”

  “No. We were traveling up to Fort Benton and heard the gunfire. We just rode over to see what was going on.”

  Smoke and Cord both started laughing. They were still laughing as they walked out of the saloon.

  “The strain of battle,” Captain Morrison spoke the words in all seriousness. “It certainly does strange things to men.”

  A grizzled old top sergeant who had been in the Army since before Morrison was born shifted his chew of tobacco to the other side of his mouth and said, “Right, sir.”

  * * *

  Smoke went to the tubs behind the barber shop and took a long hot bath. He was exhausted. He dressed in clean clothes purchased at the new general store and walked over to Hans for some hot food. The bodies of the outlaws were still being dragged off the street.

  Hans placed a huge platter of food before the man and poured him a cup of coffee. Smoke dug in. Cord entered the café and sat down at the table with Smoke. He waved away the offer of food and ordered coffee.

  “We have a problem about what to do with the wounded, Smoke.”

  “I don’t have any problem at all with it. Treat their wounds and when they’re well, try them.”

  “We don’t have a jail to hold them.”

  “Build one to hold them or hang them or turn them loose.”

  “Captain Morrison is leaving a squad here to see that we don’t hang them.”

  “Sounds like a real nice fellow to me. Very much law and order.”

  “You’re being sarcastic, Smoke.”

  “I’m being tired, is what I am. Sorry to be so short with you. Is it OK to have Charlie buried out at the ranch?”

  “You know it is,” the rancher replied, his words softly spoken. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Any reward money goes to Hardrock and Silver Jim and Pistol.”

  “I’ve already set that in motion.” He smiled. “You really think they’re going to open a home for retired gunfighters?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

  “I tell you what: I’d hate to have them for enemies.”

  The men sat and watched as wagons pulled up to the four new saloons and began loading up equipment from Big Louie’s, the Pink Puma, The JimJam, and Harriet’s House.

  “I’ll be glad to see things get back to normal,” Cord said.

  “It won’t be long. I been seeing that fellow who opened up the new general store makin’ trips to Walt and Leah’s place. Looks like he’s tryin’ to buy them out.”

  Cord’s smile was not of the pleasant type. “Liz and Alice paid Walt and Lea
h a visit. They convinced Walt that it would be the best thing if they’d sell out and get gone. Parnell is buyin’ their house. Him and Rita will live there after they’re married.”

  “Beans?”

  “I told him he was my new foreman. He’s gonna file on some sections that border my spread.”

  Smoke finally smiled. “Looks like it’s going to be a happy ending after all.”

  “A whole lot of weddin’s comin’ up next week. You are goin’ to stay for them, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. I couldn’t miss those.” He looked up at Hans, smiling at them from behind the counter. “Hilda and Ring gonna get hitched up, Hans?”

  The man bobbed his big head. “Ja. Ever’boody vill be married at vonce.”

  Smoke looked out at the muddy, churned-up street. All the bodies had been toted off.

  “I reserved all the rooms above the saloon,” Cord said. “The hands are back at the ranch, cleaning it up and repairing the damage. Bartender has your room key.”

  Smoke stood up, dropped some money on the table, and put on his hat. “I think I’ll go sleep for about fifteen hours.

  * * *

  Bob and Spring and Pat and some hands from the D-H and the Circle Double C began rebuilding Fae’s burned-down house and barn. Smoke, Hardrock, Silver Jim, and Pistol began driving the cattle back onto Box T range.

  The legendary gunfighter, Charlie Starr, was buried in a quiet ceremony in the plot on the ridge above the ranch house at the Circle Double C. His guns were buried with him. He had always said he wanted to be buried with his boots on. And he was; a brand-new pair of boots.

  Dooley Hanks and his sons were buried in the family plot on the D-H.

  Horace Mulroony said he would stay around long enough to photograph the multiple weddings and then was going to open a paper up in Great Falls. Things were just too quiet around Gibson.

  “How about you, Lujan?” Smoke asked the gunfighter.

  “Oh, I think that when you pull out I might ride down south with you. I have talked it over with Silver Jim and the others. They’re coming along as well.” He lit a long slender cigar and looked at Smoke. “You know, amigo, that this little war is far from over.”

  “I think they’ll wait until we’re out of Montana Territory to hit us.”

  “Those are my thoughts as well.”

  “We’ll hang around until Hardrock’s shoulder heals up. Then we’ll ride.”

  Lujan smiled. “The first of the reward money has arrived. The old men said I would take a thousand dollars of it or we’d drag iron. I took the money. It will last a long time. I am a simple man and my needs are few.”

  “I’d hate to have to drag iron against those old boys,” Smoke conceded. “They damn sure don’t come any saltier.”

  Lujan laughed. “They have all bought new black suits and boots and white dusters. They present quite a sight.”

  Parnell packed away his double-barreled blasters. But his reputation would never quite leave him. He would teach school for another forty years. And he would never have any problems with unruly students.

  Walt and Leah Hillery pulled out early one morning in a buckboard. They offered no goodbyes to anyone, and no one lifted a hand in farewell. It was said they were going back East. They just weren’t cut out to make it in the West.

  Several of the wounded outlaws died; the rest were chained and shackled and loaded into wagons. They were taken to the nearest jail—about a hundred miles away—escorted by the squad of Army troops.

  The brief boomtown of Gibson settled back into a quiet routine.

  Young Bob drew his time and drifted, as Smoke had predicted he would. The hard-eyed young man would earn quite a name for himself in the coming years.

  Then came the wedding day, and the day could not have been any more perfect. Mild temperatures and not a cloud in the sky.

  Del and Fae, Parnell and Rita, Liz and Gage, Ring and Hilda, and Beans and Sandi got all hitched up proper, with lots of fumbling around for rings and embarrassed kisses and a big hoo-rah right after the weddings.

  Beans took time out after the cake-cuttin’ to speak to Smoke.

  “When you pullin’ out, partner?”

  “In the morning. I’m missin my wife and kids. I want to get back to the Sugarloaf and the High Lonesome. Reno is pullin’ out today; headin’ back to Nevada.”

  “Them ol’ boys is gonna be comin’ at you, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. Might as well get it over with, ’way I look at it. No point in steppin’ around the issue.”

  “You watch your backtrail, partner.”

  Smoke stuck out his hand and Beans took it. “We’ll meet again,” Smoke told him.

  “I’m countin’ on it.”

  * * *

  As was the western way, there were no elaborate or prolonged goodbyes. The men simply packed up and mounted up before dawn and pointed the noses of their horses south, quietly riding down the main street of Gibson, Montana Territory, without looking back.

  “Feels good to be movin’,” Pistol said. “I git the feelin’ of being all cooped up if I stay too long in one place.”

  “Not to mention the fact that your face was beginnin’ to frighten little children,” Hardrock needled him. “All the greenbacks you got now you ought to git you a bag special-made and wear it over your head.”

  Smoke laughed and put Dagger into a trot. It did feel good to be on the trail again.

  They followed the Smith down to the Sixteenmile and then followed an old Indian trail down to the Shields—the trail would eventually become a major highway.

  The men rode easily, but always keeping a good eye out for trouble. None of them expected it until they were out of the territory, but it never hurt to be ready.

  They began angling more east than south, crossing the Sweetgrass, taking their time, enjoying some of the most beautiful scenery to be found. They would stop early to make camp, living off the land, hunting or fishing for their meals, for the most part avoiding any towns. They ran out of coffee and sugar and bacon just north of the Wyoming line and stopped in a little town to resupply.

  The man behind the counter of the general store gave Smoke and the others a good eyeballing as they walked into the store. The men noticed the clerk seemed awfully nervous.

  “Feller’s got the twitchies,” Hardrock whispered to Silver Jim.

  “I noticed. I’ll take me a stroll down to the livery; check out the horses there.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Hardrock said. “Might be walkin’ into something interestin’.”

  “You Smoke Jensen, ain’t you?” the clerk asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You know some hard-lookin gents name of Eddie Hart and Pooch Matthews? They travelin’ with several other gents just as hard-lookin’.”

  “I know them.”

  “They here. Crost the street in the saloon. My boy—who earns some pennies down to the stable—heared them talkin’. They gonna kill you.”

  “They’re going to try.” Smoke gave the man his order and then took a handkerchief and wiped the dust from his guns. Hardrock stepped back into the store.

  “Half a dozen of them ol’ boys in town, Smoke.”

  “I know. They’re over at the saloon.”

  As the words were leaving his mouth, the town marshal stepped in.

  “Jackson Bodine!” Hardrock grinned at the man. “I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

  “Hello, Hardrock.” The marshal stuck out his hand and Hardrock gripped it.

  “When’d you take up lawin’?”

  “When I got too old to do much of anything else.” He looked at Smoke. “I don’t want trouble in my town, Mister-whoever-you-are.”

  “This here’s Smoke Jensen, Jackson,” Hardrock said.

  The marshal exhaled slowly. “I guess a man don’t always get his wishes,” he said reluctantly.

  “I don’t want trouble in your town or anybody else’s town, marshal. But I’m afraid th
is is something those men over in the saloon won’t let me sidestep.” Briefly, he explained what had taken place over the past weeks.

  The marshal nodded his head. “Give me ten minutes before you call them out, Smoke. That’ll give me time to clear the street and have the kids back at home.”

  “You can have as much time as you need, Marshal.”

  The marshal smiled. “I never really knew for sure whether you were real or just a made-up person. They’s a play about you, you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t. Is it a good one?”

  The marshal laughed. “I ain’t seen it. Folks that have gone to the big city tell me they got you somewheres between Robin Hood and Bloody Bill Anderson.”

  Smoke chuckled. “You know, Marshal, they just may be right.”

  Jackson Bodine left the store to warn the townspeople to stay off the streets.

  “He’s a good man,” Hardrock said. “Come out here ’bout, oh, ’42 or ’43, I reckon. Preacher knows him. ’Course, Preacher knows just about ever’body out here, I reckon.”

  Silver Jim stepped inside. “I could have sworn we dropped Royce back yonder at the ranch,” he said. “But he’s over yonder, ’live and well and just as ugly as ever.”

  “Anybody else?” Lujan asked.

  “Lodi, Hazzard, Nolan . . .” His eyes touched Lujan’s unblinking stare. “And Diego and Gomez. Three or four more I know but can’t put no names to.”

  The Chihuahua gunfighter grunted. “Well, gentlemen, shall we cross the street and order us a drink?”

  “I am a mite thirsty,” Hardrock said. “Boredom does that to me,” he added with a smile.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The men walked across the dusty street, all of them knowing the gunfighters in the saloon were waiting for them, watching them as they crossed the street.

  Smoke was the first to push open the batwings and step inside, moving to one side so the others could follow quickly and let their eyes adjust to the dimmer light.

  The first thing Smoke noticed was that Diego and Gomez were widely separated, one standing clear across the room from the other. It was a trick they used often, catching a man in a crossfire.

  Smoke moved to the bar, his spurs jingling softly with each step. He walked to the far end of the bar while Lujan stopped at the end of the bar closest to the batwings. The move did not escape the eyes of Diego and Gomez. Both men smiled knowingly.