Absaroka Ambush

20

“We found Bankston,” Jud told Clint. “We drew straws to see who’d cut him loose. Fatso lost.”

“What are you talking about?”

Jud explained.

“Where is he now?”

“Down at the crick, washing, for all the good it’ll do him. Them skunks scored direct hits, Clint. It was so bad Fatso got sick.”

Clint pointed his cigar at his foreman. “Let me tell you something, Jud. I don’t like jokes being played on me. Jensen thinks this is funny. But I’m not laughing. The man is not only making a fool out of me, but you and the men as well. You think about that and pass the word to the boys.”

Clint watched his foreman’s face and saw a scowl form amid the bruises from the rake handle. “I didn’t look at it like that, Clint. But you’re right. What do you want the boys to do?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know. I feel like I’m a prisoner on my own land. Damn Smoke Jensen!”

Stony handed Sally the note from the horse’s mane and she read it and smiled. “He’s fine. And having fun.”

“Fun?” the cowboy said. “Fun?”

“Yes. It’s only a few lines, but I sense that he doesn’t want to kill unless he’s forced into it. He’s trying to demoralize Clint’s hands.”

“I, ah, ain’t real sure what that means, Miss Sally.”

“He’s trying to get them to quit.”

“Oh. He ought to just plug everyone he sees. That’s the best way I know of to get them to quit.”

“It might come to that, Stony. But I hope not. There has been far too much bloodshed already.”

“Clint ain’t gonna quit, ma’am. I know the man. He’ll fight to the bitter end.”

“Then the man is a fool,” Sally said.

“Yes, ma’am,” the cowboy replied. “I reckon he is. But a dangerous fool. I hope your man ain’t takin’ him too lightly.”

“Oh, I assure you, Stony. My husband is taking Mr. Black very seriously.”

Smoke shifted his camp, moving much closer to the home of Clint. He lay on a ridge in heavy brush and watched the grounds through binoculars. Someone had rigged a tent about two hundred yards from the bunkhouse and Smoke couldn’t figure out what in the world it was for. Only one man was staying in the tent and Smoke recognized him as the man he’d tied up in the woods. Every time he tried to leave the tent area, the others would curse and wave and shout him back.

“Strange,” Smoke muttered. “Very odd behavior. Maybe the man has measles or something.”

Taking a longer look, Smoke could see that few hands had left the ranch grounds. They had rounded up their stampeded horses—most of them anyway—and the corral was full. Clint had called a halt to the search and was making plans. And he’d do it much more carefully than before. Smoke had stung the man and he’d be smarting from the sting. Smoke suddenly had a hunch that he had overstayed his welcome and it just might be time to get gone from Circle 45 range. The more he thought about it, the better that idea sounded to him. He gathered up his gear and headed back to friendlier territory.

He spent that night in a cold camp sleeping under the stars. He woke up just one time. But it was only a bear rooting and grunting around. Smoke stayed awake long enough to hear the bear’s sounds fade away, and then he went back to sleep.

He was back at the Double D at noon the next day. He’d have to make a new pair of moccasins, for the ones he had on were nearly worn out.

After a bath and a shave and a change into fresh clothing, he told the others what he’d done.

Everyone got a kick out of it, especially about the hand trapped in the outhouse and about Smoke blowing Clint’s hat off his head.

“But,” Smoke told the group, “while I did have some fun at Clint’s expense, he’s not going to let it rest. He’ll never forgive me for terrorizing his home and for making a fool of him. I don’t know what he’ll do next. But you can bet it won’t be anything nice.”

“We need to go into town for supplies,” Sally told him. “We’re running low on nearly everything.”

“Make a list, get the wagons ready, and we’ll go in tomorrow morning,” Smoke said. “We’ll take four men with us; the rest of you stay here and keep watch. We’re not prisoners on the spread. If Clint or his men are in town and want trouble, I’ll damn sure oblige them.”

They were, and he did.

The Circle 45 hands were in no mood for fun and games; they were still smarting over the antics of Smoke Jensen. Tucker and Longman could not pull boots on over their mangled and swollen feet. A half a dozen Circle 45 riders had just disappeared without a trace. Several others had ridden back to the bunkhouse, collected their gear, and left, a couple without even staying around to get their pay. A man couldn’t get within fifty feet of Bankston, he still smelled so bad. So it was a trouble-hunting bunch that waited in Blackstown that morning.

Sheriff Harris Black and all but one of his deputies had been called out of town to help to chase down two men who had robbed and murdered an elderly farmer and his wife the night before. It was a nervous deputy who watched the Double D people come in from one direction and the knot of Circle 45 hands ride in from the other. Lucas stepped back into the office and took a sawed-off from the rack, breaking it open and loading it up with buckshot—or what passed for buckshot in those days, usually nails and tacks and ball bearings and sometimes small rocks.

“Well now,” Tex Mason said. “Would you just look who’s ridin’ in.”

“I see them,” Weldon Ball said. He stood by his horse, looking over the saddle. “We play this right and we got Jensen cold.”

“Let’s let them get all spread out. Some of them boys will stay with the women, guardin’ them. John, you and Ballard go with Weldon. Art, you and Fatso stay with me. Austin, you take Cantrell and Miller. If we play this right, we can end it today and ride out with money in our pockets.”

“Yeah,” Austin said. “If we put Smoke Jensen down, we can name our price from here on out.”

“We’ll have a drink and let them get started doin’ their business,” Weldon said. “Then we’ll make our move. Stay loose and ready.”

“I think it’s gonna pop this day,” Stony said, swinging down from the saddle in front of Hanlon’s Emporium. They all, out of long habit, freed the hammers of their six-shooters. “That bunch of no-counts ain’t taken their eyes off us.”

“Check your guns,” Smoke ordered the men. Stony, Malvern, Waymore, and Eli checked their guns and loaded up the empty chamber. “See how they’re standing? There’ll be three groups of them. Watch yourselves. Sally, you and the twins get inside the store and take your time shopping. Stay clear of the windows.”

Smoke paused for a moment, standing by his horse. “Waymore, you and Malvern pull the wagons around to the rear of the store. Let’s get our horses off the street while we’re at it.” Smoke walked down to the sheriff’s office. He pushed open the door and told Lucas, “Pass the word to get the women and kids off the streets, Deputy. I think it’s going to explode this day. Where’s Harris?”

“Him and the others are out chasing a double murderer. And it’s no joke this time.”

“All right. Lucas, we’re not going to open this ball. But when the music starts, we won’t be wallflowers about hitting the dance floor.”

“I understand. I’ll start spreadin’ the word.”

Within minutes, the street was cleared of horseflesh and humans. The sun beat down; already it was a hot day. A wind devil spun around in the center of the street, then vanished, whirling like a dervish. Dr. Garrett began laying out bandages and instruments.

Smoke and the Double D hands had fanned out, all up and down the street. They stood in the shadows of buildings and alleyways and watched and waited. Inside the saloon, the Circle 45 hired guns were sipping rye, working up their courage to try to do what so many others had attempted and failed. To kill the legendary Smoke Jensen.

A drifting cowboy rode slowly into town. He stopped at the edge of town and took in the scene. Nothing was moving. Not a horse or man, woman, or kid in sight. Even the dogs had cleared the street. He turned into the livery and swung down.

“What’s goin’ on here?” he questioned the hostler.

“The Double D hands and the Circle 45 riders are gettin’ ready to settle some old scores.”

“Who’s your money on?”

“Let’s put it this way: the Double D is bein’ bossed by Smoke Jensen.”

“Smoke Jensen!” the cowboy exclaimed. “Here?”

“Durn sure is. In the flesh. You’d be showin’ some smarts if you just stood right here ’til this is over.”

“I ain’t never been known to be real bright,” the cowboy said. “I think I’ll go find Mr. Jensen and ask for a job.”

“Now?”

But the cowboy was gone, walking up the boardwalk. He stopped at an alleyway and grinned at Waymore.

“Git in here, Conny,” Waymore said. “You damn fool. I thought you was lookin’ at the rear end of cows down in Kansas?”

“I quit ’em after me and the foreman had a slight disagreement.”

“You mean, you punched him in the mouth and he fired you.”

Conny grinned. “Yeah. After he beat the stuffin’s out of me.”

“You never did have no sense. What happened?”

“He called me a bad name and I busted him on the nose. Your boss hirin’?”

“Now I know you ain’t got no sense. You know who’s ramrodin’ this outfit?”

“Man down at the stable told me.”

“And you still want to sign on?”

“Why not?”

“Now I’m sure you’re crazy. Yeah, as a matter of fact, we could use another hand or two. You got a horse?”

“How the hell do you think I got here from Kansas—walked?”

Before he could reply, boots sounded on the boardwalk. “Yonder comes the boss,” Waymore said.

Conny whistled softly. “He sure is a big’un, ain’t he?”

“And hell on wheels with them guns.” He waited until Smoke had calmly strolled up as if on a Sunday walk. “Boss, this here terrible-lookin’ saddle bum is Conny. He ain’t to be trusted around food nor whiskey, and he likes to fight—even though he don’t never win—but he can ride anything with hair on it and he’ll give you a good day’s work. He needs a job.”

Smoke smiled and shook hands with the man. “You’re hired. Can you use that gun you’re wearing?”

“I ain’t no fast gun. But I generally hit what I’m shootin’ at.”

“You’re stepping into the middle of a war. I want you to know that up front.”

“If you’re fightin’ that damn Clint Black, I’d ride for nothin’ but bunk and board.”

“Don’t hire him on them terms, Boss.” Waymore said. “He can eat more’n any two men you ever seen.”

Smoke chuckled. “You’re a pretty good hand at the table yourself, Waymore. All right, Conny. Clint’s hired a lot of gunhands. Some of them are pretty good. He’s got nine men in town right now. Including Weldon Ball, Tex Mason, and Austin Charles. They’re all over at the saloon. We wait for them to start the show.”

“It’s a good thing I ain’t eat in a day,” Conny said. “Eatin’ makes me sleepy.”

“If that was the truth you’d be asleep all the time,” Waymore remarked. “You ridin’ the line, Conny?”

“I ain’t got a dime to my name.”

Smoke handed the puncher a twenty-dollar gold piece. “That might make you feel better.”

“Durn sure does, Boss,” Conny said, pocketing the money. “Now if them bad’uns over there will just get this party goin’, we can get it over with and I can get me something to eat ’fore I fall over from the hungries.”

“You better get you some boots first,” Waymore told him. “I can see your dirty socks on both feet.”

“Conny,” Smoke said, after looking at the cowboy for a moment. “You stay here with me for a moment. Waymore, use the alleys and tell the boys to move this thing to the edge of town. Up next to the bridge. I don’t want a stray bullet to kill some innocent person.”

“Right, boss.”

“Conny. You follow Waymore and stop in at the general store and get you a hunk of cheese and a handful of crackers. You’re staggering on your feet, man. How long’s it been since you’ve eaten?”

Conny grinned. “Several days, boss. It just ain’t in me to beg. And times is hard out here.”

“All right. Go get something to eat and meet me behind the store in a few minutes.”

Smoke gave Conny enough time to reach the store; then he rolled a cigarette and smoked it down, always keeping his eyes on the saloon batwings. There was no sign of the Circle 45 hands. Smoke ground out the butt with the toe of his boot and walked up the alley. Conny was sitting on the loading dock, wolfing down a huge sandwich and drinking a bottle of sarsaparilla. The puncher grinned at him. He was missing two front teeth, and Smoke suspected they’d been knocked out in a brawl.

“After three of these sandwiches, I could take on a mama bear with cubs,” Conny said.

“Three!” Smoke said.

“I eat quick when they’s shootin’ to be done.”

Sally appeared at the back. “I’m laying in extra supplies,” she said with a smile. “Your new hand can put away the food.”

Smoke shook his head and Conny brushed a few crumbs off his patched shirt and drained the sarsaparilla. He checked his Colt and loaded up the empty chamber. He hopped off the loading dock. “Now let’s go see your varmint, boss.”

As they walked, Smoke brought Conny up to date.

“I know Clint Black,” Conny said. “He’s as lowdown as they come. No mercy or feelin’s for nobody in him. If you have to shoot a rabid animal, you’re scared of it, but you can feel sorry for it. ’Cause he didn’t want the disease. But I could shoot Clint Black or Jud Howes and not feel nothin’. I tried to work for them. Man, I can’t harm no woman or child. Until farmers just got so many around here, there wasn’t no stoppin’ them, Clint burned out and killed many of them. I worked one week for him and then hauled my ashes. And don’t feel sorry for no hand that hires on with the Circle 45. After they’ve been there a week, they know what’s goin’ on.”

Smoke turned toward the street and the boys fell in with him.

“Are we goin’ out in the street and face them gunhandlers, boss?” Malvern asked.

“No. You men aren’t gunfighters. We’re going to make them come to us and meet them around these shacks here. We’ll step out into the street and then, at my word, dive for cover and start shooting.”

“I like your style!” Conny said, just as one bootheel came off and he started limping along.

Waymore shook his head. “Make your shots count, Conny. With all that crowd up yonder in the saloon, they’s got to be one with your size.”