Absaroka Ambush

23

The two men pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the saloon, walking shoulder to shoulder. Once inside, from long habit, they moved apart. The place was filled to overflowing with gawkers, ne’er-do-wells, gamblers, and hired guns. The hum of conversation died as the two men were noticed.

Smoke leaned against the wall and surveyed the situation through cool eyes, his gaze stopping at Tall Mosley. “Been a while, Tall.”

“Several years, Smoke,” the long, lanky gunfighter said. “Down around Boulder Creek, I think it was.”

“That’s right.” He shifted his eyes to Little John Perkins. “John.”

“Jensen,” the little gunslick said. “You finally stuck your nose into something that you can’t handle, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, John. I’m still here.”

Paul Stark turned and put his back to the bar. He stood smiling at Smoke. “Ain’t seen you in two-three years, Jensen. You lookin’ prosperous.”

“I’m well.”

“Your family?”

“They’re fine.”

“I heard your wife is here.”

“Out at the Double D.”

Paul’s smile was not pretty. He straightened and dropped his hands to the butts of his guns. “I been lookin’ forward to this. Ever since I first laid eyes on that wife of yours. When you’re cold in the ground, Jensen, I’ll lift the skirts of that pretty woman of yourn. I’ll strip her nekked and see how she likes it rough.”

Smoke shot him. He did not change expression, nor blink an eye. He just pulled, cocked, and fired before anyone could move a muscle. The bullet took the gunfighter in the center of the chest and Paul Stark was dead before his butt hit the floor. No one saw when he pulled his second gun.

“He had no right to say that about your wife,” a Circle 45 hired gun said. “I might be shootin’ at you ’fore long, Jensen. But I’ll not say a word about a good woman.”

“Paul raped a woman down in New Mexico a couple of years ago,” another man said. “I never did have no use for him.”

Smoke eased the hammers down on his .44s and a sigh could be heard from the crowd. A few of those who had witnessed the blinding speed and deadly accuracy of Smoke Jensen would finish their drinks and ride on. No amount of money was worth dying for.

Tall and Little John and the others now knew how fast Jensen was. And several of the smarter ones knew he had come to town to show them. If it hadn’t been Paul Stark, it would have been one of them. The eyes of the hired guns widened as the batwings were pushed open and Huggie Charles and Del Rovare stepped in. These men were living legends in the West. Right up there with the old mountain man, Preacher. These two old gunhandlers rated up there with Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont and Johnny North and Earl Sutcliffe and the Mexican gunfighters, Al Martine and Carbone. What the hell was this pair of ol’ rattlesnakes doing here?

“We always miss out on the fun,” Rovare said, his eyes on the stretched out Paul Stark.

“Well, maybe it’s for the best,” Huggie said, stepping around Smoke and the Sheriff. “Man gets to our advanced age, too much excitement ain’t good for him.” A Circle 45 hand stood in his way. Huggie gave him a shove that nearly put him to the floor. “Get the hell out of the way, boy. Ain’t you got no respect for your elders?”

“Who you think you’re shovin’ around, you old son of a bitch!” the punk popped off.

Huggie slapped him. Huggie was not a young man, but he had worked hard all his life, and his arms and shoulders still were packed with muscle from spending years wrestling cattle. His hands were hard and callused and the blow rocked the young tough back on his bootheels and brought blood to his mouth. He reached for his guns.

“No, Will!” Tall shouted. “That’s Huggie Charles.”

“Who the hell is Huggie Charles?” the punk said, and dragged iron.

Huggie shot him twice before the would-be tough could clear leather. The kid rose up on the tips of his boots and gasped, then fell forward, landing on his face. He moaned and rolled over, staring up at Huggie.

“I’m Huggie Charles, boy,” the old gunfighter told him. “A man ought to know who killed him.”

“But I can’t die,” the young man said, both hands holding his shot-up belly.

“That’s what you all think,” Del said, looking around the room. “But me and Huggie know different. Like Jensen here. A month from now, not a soul in this town will remember this boy’s name. Six months from now, the wooden cross will have begun to rot. A year from now, his grave site will be known only to God—or the devil.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say to a dyin’ man!” the punk said.

Del looked down at him. “What’d you want me to say, congratulations?” He walked to the bar, Huggie beside him. “Rye, with beer chasers, for me and my friend.”

The barkeep was so scared he could hardly pour and pull.

Doc Garrett pushed in and knelt down beside the dying gunhand. He looked up at the sheriff. “Not a chance.”

“But I can’t die!” the man hollered. “They said I was fast.”

“They lied,” Smoke told him, then walked to the bar, stopped by Tall. “Get out of this one, Tall.” He spoke quietly, his elbows on the bar. “Go on back to where you came from.”

“You got a couple of old gunslicks, ten or so punchers, and you’re tellin’ me to pull out? You ain’t got that many friends, Jensen.”

The batwings were shoved open and heavy boots thudded against the floor, accompanied by jingling spurs.

“Aw, hell!” a Circle 45 hand said.

Al Martine and Carbone, the Chihuahua gunfighters, walked to the bar. Smoke smiled at the expression on Tall’s face. “You think Bronco Ford is the only one who can send a telegram, Tall?”

Martine dropped a hand on Tall’s shoulder and spun him around. “You and I, amigo, we have differences to settle between us, no?”

Tall stiffened. He didn’t want to pull on Al Martine, even though he knew he was just as fast. But ‘just as fast’ won’t get it. Both men would have lead in them. And standing one foot apart, the wounds would be hideous.

The batwings pushed open and two of the most disreputable-looking men anyone had seen in a long time walked in. They both looked older than dirt. They were dressed in buckskins, except for hat and boots. Both wore bright red sashes around their lean waists. Pistols tucked behind the sashes. They carried Winchester rifles, the ’73 model.

“What the hell is that?” a Circle 45 hand asked.

“Puma Buck and Lee Staples,” Smoke said. “You boys have heard of them, I suppose.”

“Heard of them?” another gunny said from his chair, staring up at the old mountain men. “Hell, they been dead for years.”

With no wasted motion, Puma laid the butt of his Winchester into the hand’s face, busting his nose and knocking him out of the chair. “I’m a long way from dead, lad,” Puma told him. “And you put a hand on that short gun and I’ll kill you.”

The hand cursed and came up with his fist wrapped around the butt of a .45. Puma pulled the trigger of the Winchester and punched the gunfighter’s ticket for a long dark ride straight to hell.

“Whiskey!” Lee Staples hollered. “And plenty of it. It’s been a dusty ride. Smoke, my boy!” He stepped up and pounded Smoke on the arms and shoulders. “It’s been a long time.”

Puma stepped over the man Huggie had left on the floor and walked to the bar, shaking hands with Smoke. He smiled at Tall, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “This one I helped raise. Me and a whole passel of other mountain men. Get out of my gawddamned way.”

Tall’s eyes widened in shock. No one talked to him like that. But he moved away, stepping lightly, his back still to the bar. This crazy wild-eyed old man scared him. Tall knew to leave old folks alone. For they had very little to lose and would kill you in a heartbeat.

“Another time, Tall,” Martine said. He turned his back to the gunfighter and extended his hand to Puma. “I have heard of you for years, and I am honored to finally make your acquaintance. I am Al Martine, Mr. Buck, and this is my compadre, Carbone.”

“Pleased, boys. I’ve heared of you. You come up to hep my boy, here?”

“Your…son?” Carbone was startled.

Puma cackled. “No. Not no blood kin. But a bunch of us mountain men sort of adopted him when he was a tadpole. Any man who is an enemy of Smoke’s is an enemy of mine.” He turned to face the crowded room. “And I’ll kill any man who lifts a hand agin him. I’ll shoot you in the back, I’ll shoot you in the front. But I will kill you.”

“Now just wait a minute,” Harris said. “I’m the sheriff here, and I…”

“We don’t give a damn who you are,” Lee Staples said. “We don’t believe in waitin’ till a rabid skunk bites us ’fore we kill it. And don’t even think about givin’ me no lectures, I don’t take kindly to them. Me and Puma there, we’re somewheres around eighty years old. You think we really give a damn what you or anyone else says? Fifty years ago, I probably peed right here where this buildin’ is standin’. Probably leanin’ up agin a tree ’fore folks come in and cut ’em all down. Now you go run along and tend to lost dogs and treed cats. We’ll handle this.”

Harris stood speechless.

Puma looked at a young rider standing at the bar. “You work for the Circle 45, boy?”

“A…I, uh, yes, sir. I do. I hired on a couple of days ago.”

Puma hit him a vicious blow in the belly with the butt of the Winchester, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gagging, and fell to the floor. “Now you hear me, boy,” Puma said. “Playtime is over. I talked with some Injuns over on the Divide a few days ago. They tole me that this here Clint Black who owns the Circle 45 had hired men to kill Smoke Jensen. Is that what you hired on to do, boy?”

“I reckon so,” the young man gasped.

“Well…you a young man, you entitled to make a mistake. I did, a time or two. So I tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m not gonna kill you.”

Lee Staples had turned around, facing the men in the saloon, his Winchester level, hammer back. Carbone and Martine stood with him, hands over their guns. Huggie and Del faced the crowded room, smiles on their faces. Not a Circle 45 hand moved a muscle. Most tried to not even breathe.

“Git up!” Puma snapped, and the young man rose painfully. “Walk out of here, get on your horse, and ride. Don’t never let me see you within a hundred miles of this place whilst this little war is wagin’. ’Cause ifn I do, I’ll kill you on the spot. You understand all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Git!”

The young man got.

Puma turned around, facing the men in the room. “Anybody else here work for the Circle 45? If you do, make your peace with the Almighty, ’cause you’re dyin’ today.”

“That son of a bitch is crazy!” a man whispered.

“Shut up,” his buddy whispered.

Puma smiled. “Lee? You step on outside and get ready to shoot anyone who tries to mount a horse wearin’ a Circle 45 brand.”

Sheriff Black smiled grudgingly. These old boys were putting on the pressure and screwing it down tight. The pot might take the steam a while longer, but everything was coming to a head and it had to blow the lid off soon.

He cut his eyes to Jensen. The man was leaning up against the bar, a slight smile on his lips. In a strange way, he’s enjoying this, Harris thought. Then he thought: well, why shouldn’t he? He was halfway raised by the likes of these randy, uncurried, wild ol’ mountain men. Their philosophy is his own.

None of the Circle 45 hands made any attempt to move toward the door. They did not doubt to a person that Lee Staples would shoot them down like a rabid animal if they went near any horse wearing Clint Black’s brand.

Smoke cut his eyes to Tall Mosley. “See you around, Tall.”

“Yeah,” Tall said. “Bet on it.”

Smoke walked out of the barroom, followed by Al Martine, Carbone, then Huggie and Del. Puma was the last one to leave, cautiously backing out, a wicked grin on his face.

Harris came out to the boardwalk a moment later.

“Think I won’t shoot you if you interfere?” Puma asked the sheriff.

Harris slowly shook his head. “No, Puma. I don’t doubt it for a second.”

“That’s good, Sheriff,” the old mountain man said. “’Cause me and Lee is gonna bring this here little pimple to a head.” His grin turned into a smile. “And we got a few more surprises to spring on you.”

“I can hardly wait,” Harris said drily.

Puma cackled out laughter. “Course your no-count brother ain’t gonna like it a bit.”

“You gun my brother down, without it being a fair shooting, or any other man in my jurisdiction for that matter, and you’ll face murder charges.”

“Hee, hee, hee,” Puma cackled. “And you think you be so keen with the high country you think you could find me out yonder in the lonesome?”

“No,” Harris said honestly. “I imagine you could lose yourself back there and I’d never find you. I’m just telling you what the charges will be, that’s all.”

“I think you a good man, Sheriff,” Puma told him. “Took you awhile to come to that, from all that I hear about you and your no-count brother, but you made a clean break. Now you ponder this bit of advice: don’t confuse bravery and duty with foolhardiness. You just sit back and concentrate on catchin’ chicken thieves and footpadders. Stay out of our way. And if you’re thinkin’ ’bout tryin’ to ’rrest any of us, from Smoke Jensen to me, think agin. ’Cause it ain’t gonna happen.”

“I’ll do my job,” Harris said stiffly. “This is not eighteen-thirty, Puma. It’s halfway civilized out here now.”

Puma spat his contempt for that remark. “If it was civilized, men like your brother would be rottin’ in the grave instead of hay-rassin’ decent folk.”

“You break the law, and I’ll arrest you, Puma.”

“You’ll never do such of a thing.”

Harris turned, stepped off the boardwalk, and walked to his office.

“What other surprises do you have in store, Puma?” Smoke asked.

“Hee, hee, hee,” Puma cackled mysteriously.